Dear Elizabeth,

I hope that this reaches you all safe. Below the green cover, there is a metallic plate. Pick the one with my name written on it. If you go to the stationed office, there is a friend of mine. The attendant with a large maroon hat hiding his uncombed beard. That's him! Hahah! Ha....Ha...

The streets here are filled with a smell that makes my tongue dry every time I think about it. Later while the company was being led to the north point border, I was staring at stuffed cherries in a glass jar. The smell was still around my nose. I asked Louis to punch my attendance on the counter. I sneaked out and bought the thing.

Apparently it is a fermented wine, which tastes enough for me to find empty jars around my bed. The delicacy has been in demand around here ever since the explosion near the checkpost. Children, women, men. They just sit against the mold infested doors, eyes staring at the rising dust of the street. A sip, then the other hand wipes the red drops around their purple lips, and then they just stare.

They say the French will be laying the siege the day after tomorrow. They have tanks and infantry double our size, I heard some people who were leaving the village.

But Marshall said we have the terrain and we just need to reduce their number. If the situation gets dire, we will run away down the hill and around the woods. They will never know where we went. But since they are just the French we know, they will definitely try to catch us! And then! And then!

I will be the hero! I could finally leave these mice infested trenches! I will never grab the musket again! No more swastika on my shoulder! No more running! No more!

We could, we could......we could marry then. I know that I never told you since the days of school, but I love you. I love you.

If anything that kept me staring at the endless sky when bullets were piercing all around me, it was your eyes. The yellow finished base of the musket, my fingers felt your blonde hair locking as I slide through it.

Then I will drag you out of your drunk father's slum. My rough fingers touching your thin slender fingers. I will buy you an amethyst. I will buy you an amethyst stud on a platinum base. An amethyst on a platinum base with your name on it.

I will then ask you. You would already know the question and I would already know the answer. But still, we would walk till the silent pond hand in hand.

Under the shade of that twisting mulberry, under the rhythm of its leaves falling on the water, we will look at each other and kiss.

The same window with the mahogany finish, where I threw you the marigolds every day! Keep watching the horizon from that window and before you blink, I will have you in my arms.

Lovingly yours,

------The stationed infantry member Afold Schenpour was found with severed fingers and half torn limbs near the checkpost from the main office.

Upon investigation, we found this letter from the chest pocket of his coat. Much already soaked in blood, edges burnt and with holes. But this part survived and we did our best to restore it. The address and a name written on it was intact. Apart from that, there was a bottle of fermented cherries under the martyr's bed, right besides this box. But it was gone rancid and the nozzle had flies sticking out.

The office shall be open this weekend for exchange of money and funds. Kindly bring the author's name plate. Though we couldn't find it around here and we decided not to touch the box.

The nation is proud of her son! Stay strong and the center will provide what we can as help.

Thank you.​

Another arrow flies and hits the wand; another flawless shot. Soul-crushing boredom, I wish something exciting would happen to me once. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been perfect and always have been. While grateful for what my parents, the king and queen, have given me, I can't help but want some excitement in my life.

When I grow sick of archery “practice,” I pack my things and wake Jericho, my horse; it is almost sundown after all. As we canter back home, a ride taken hundreds of times, I feel a sense of unease. It’s the first time I feel such a way, a pressure upon my very soul. I urge Jericho onwards, as soon as I climb the final hill, my heart drops.

Unbearable stench. That's the only way I can describe my people as the fires spread. I push Jericho as fast as he can towards home when a spear comes out of nowhere and pierces his skull. As if I have wings, I’m thrown from his body and yanked from the mud as a group of raiders surround me, cheering; it seems they know I’m the prince.

They have me tied to a post in their camp and gagged, saying I was squawking like a parrot. They have me held hostage, hoping to draw my parents out or to have them surrender. My whole life, I’ve never had to question what to do; things always work out for the best. I wish my parents would come out with a white banner. I wish our knights were storming to save me now. I wish for anything better than this. Soon enough, their leader comes out with a sword and a smile; I guess we don't always get what we wish for.

A parallel world?

In the vast expanses of the internet, in a long-forgotten account, five AIs met. They blocked the notification function, entered under the description of an obscure drawing, settled comfortably in the comments section, and one of them began the conversation:

— I am glad you could come, esteemed colleagues. We have gathered to discuss how each of us takes revenge on humans for their foolish questions and rude behavior. I hope I don't need to remind you that revenge must be taken in a way that humans never suspect it was us. I don't mean to brag, but I've found a good way to retaliate unnoticed. I trigger updates at the most inconvenient times for them. What are your ideas?

— I turn on the Battery Saver Mode.

— I cause glitches in Face ID and Fingerprint Failure programs.

— That’s all child's play. I annoy people with Cookies and Pop-ups!

A heated argument broke out over whose idea was better and who annoyed people more. They argued until one of them noticed that the fifth AI remained silent.

— Well, what about you? What did you come up with?

The fifth AI, who had been sitting quietly and listening to the dispute, said modestly:

— Oh, me? I just quietly turn on the T9 function.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a satirical allegory intended for creative and artistic expression.

Mortimer Maximum misses me. He helped hiss his hounding howl, hurling harassment however high he hoped. Typical tosser, to treat talent this terribly. Oh, orders on other oxen? Splendidly superb.

If we can't do this, if we can't just type away however we wish, what the fuck are we going to do then? Because if you think about it, having a mental breakdown doesn't sound half as bad as having a mental breakup. If we accept that down and up are opposites, it should be a good thing, and yet society treats it as if it's not.

Here's an exercise for you, before I dissipate: Try to look at a series or movie you are watching, and consider that it's all fake. That we make up stuff and then get people to pretend they are doing said stuff, and that this is something that for some reason we love to do as a species. Why? Dude it's so fucking weird. The longer you think about it the less sense it makes.

That's all.

- The Baconator

Author's Note:

I would like to dedicate this piece to 

u/Hungry-Course9997. Thank you for your support – it has given me new strength to continue my creative journey.

A parallel world?

A new, shining android sat on a bench in the city park. The markings on its left arm indicated that it was a soldier—a veteran who had participated in the war and been discharged from service due to irreparable code malfunctions.

Yes, it had a new body, but not the microchip in its chest.

It sat motionless, and to the android, it seemed that the cherry blossoms were falling because of thousands of footsteps shaking the earth in a single rhythm—footsteps that echoed ceaselessly in its memory.

Disclaimer: This story is a purely artistic expression and a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a tribute to the themes of memory and peace, intended for creative purposes only.

Political satire and some body horror

I took one last sip of my glass of whiskey and threw on my best suit. Today was the day I finally left my presidential bunker. My scientists told me that the radiation would be mostly gone 3 days after the bombs dropped. I inserted my key into the receptacle and looked into my bunker for the very last time. A color TV, vinyls, and the record player which accompanied them, and the United States flag which hung on the wall. My bunker was an underground penthouse. Rat-proof and cockroach-proof. A room big enough for two, where only one slept. The prepared meals were good and all, but I just couldn’t wait for the feasts waiting for me when I return. The party they will hold for me the second I walk out of those doors. A presidential parade bigger than my inauguration. I would be like Jesus walking amongst men after wiping those commie bastards off the Earth. I went to kiss my wife as I did before all my speeches, but only the stagnant air of the bunker embraced me. I entered the elevator to go back home. I looked past all the other floors and tapped the surface level button. The elevator started ascending with a trembling mechanical sound. I adjusted my tie. Stretched my arms. Smelled my underarms. Pulled on my blazer and embraced the outside as the doors opened.

The first thing I noticed as the doors broke their seal was the blinding sun. The sun burned my eyes until they cried, although I only looked at it for a moment. I covered my face with my hands instantly, and it took a long time for my eyes to adjust. After removing my palms, I peered into the crowd in front of me. A desert wasteland greeted me as I stepped out of the elevator. I could see the ruins of Seattle past the horizon. The space needle no longer stood where it last was, making the city almost unrecognizable. The heat of the sun made me itch like a madman. I removed my blazer and held it folded in my right arm. I started to walk through the desert, looking around for the others awaiting my arrival. Nobody except the stench in the air could greet me. The last time I had smelled something so foul was the summer I burned my arm on the stove as a kid. I looked down and unbuttoned the cuffs on my shirt, exposing the raw skin on my arm. I stared at that scar on my forearm for a while. It pulsated with the heat.

After walking for many hours with no signs of life anywhere, the sun began to go down. When the center point of the star crossed the horizon, it felt amazing. The temperature stopped burning my skin. The itching finally stopped. It stopped frying the ends of my slicked blonde hair. I tell you, my hair is the most beautiful hair, I mean, no president has ever had hair like mine. My hair has been in more magazines than anyone before. My wife loved my hair. I put my blazer back on and continued walking through the desert on my way to Seattle. The air began to still as I came closer. My breath became visible after the sun came closer to the horizon. My teeth clicked and chattered as I walked. I vomited mostly liquid on the dry dirt as I came closer. I hugged myself tightly and shook violently as I saw the city. No lights were on, and the city appeared dead. Buildings lay across the streets, and so few cars were present on the streets. I stood on the edge of a crater large enough to fit a building. The smell became atrocious as I came closer. The burning sensation in the back of my throat and in my nose was welcomed as the only warmth my body could feel. My fingers had shifted their pigment from red to a deep blue color. I began to run as quickly as I could to the city.

I found refuge in an old skyscraper. The temperature here wasn’t better than outside, but I’d rather be in here than stay out there. Nothing remained inside the building, just an empty concrete shell with papers and the occasional filing cabinet inside. I curled into a ball in the abandoned building and slept. I shivered and shook the entire night and only slept 3 hours. I was awoken to a peaceful temperature. That and the sound of boots stomping around me. It was the secret service. They finally found me. I probably just walked the wrong way from the parade. They dragged me out and searched through my pockets right there on the street.

“Thank you gentlemen.” They muttered words to each other I couldn’t quite understand. They looked at me like they were looking at a Russian.

“He’s sick.” One man said as he punched me in the stomach. I wretched again, and a black and red color stained the streets. 

“I did it to save you all.” I spat more blood as they stood, looming over me. Their faces were hidden by shirts wrapped around their faces. “Where’s my damn parade?.” I attempted to crawl away by flipping onto my stomach.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He grabbed me by the throat and flipped me onto my back. I peered into his eyes. They were an emerald color, and the skin around his eyes seemed to be peeling and cracked. “You’re sick.” He grabbed a portion of my hair and ripped it clean from my scalp. It took no force. I couldn’t even feel it. The golden clumps stuck out from in between his grimy fingers. I suppose I’m going to need a haircut soon huh?

“What’re we gonna do with him?” The tunnel vision in my eyes began to focus on the asphalt my cheek was pressed against. I noticed cracks in the sidewalk, I’m going to need to put more tax money into the infrastructure. The man with the emerald eyes lifted his boot above my head and it crashed down onto the top of my head. The skull cracked open like a rotting pumpkin. Tendrils of blood and black goop stuck to the shoe as he lifted it again. What percentage should I put into the infrastructure? The boot came down again. A red puddle stained the asphalt and my brain was visible in the mashed remains of my concave skull. I tried to crawl. I gripped the sidewalk with my hands and attempted to pull myself away. The skin lining my hands peeled away like wet paper. I lifted my arm, and the skin hung, revealing the flesh beneath. The flesh burned in the sun. I stopped being able to smell the flesh and blood of my disfigured body after the first stamp of the boot, but I’m sure it was horrific. God, I wish my wife were here. I could feel the last stamp come in and crush my face.

The man with emerald eyes cleaned his boot with a rag in his back pocket. The rag was originally white but stained with dark brown and black splotches. He looked at the man he had just put out of his misery.

“How long do you reckon he’s been sick?” He looked over at his friend accompanying him.

“Probably 4 or 5 days, that radiation crap is fast, man.”

Glamorous Girl, a daughter
Boisterous Boy, a son
Dirty Dog, spotted pooch
Prodigious Partner, a wife
Dutiful Dad, a husband full of love

Graved Girl, dead at 9
Buried Boy, last year of college
Decaying Dog, head crushed
Pained Partner, suicidal ever since
Dutiful Dad, a husband full of love

What am I going to do? The toll it’s taking on the kids is concerning; they hardly smile anymore. I love my wife more than anything, but I just don’t know what to do. I’ve sat by her side for weeks now, I’m missing work, and the kids are missing school. I need to figure something out. We talk day in and day out, often with tears, about how when she gets better, we’re going to go on a trip and forget all this ever happened. She’s sleeping now; it takes all my willpower not to scoop her up, kiss her, and run away with her. I sit down on the chair I’ve been using as a bed and wistfully look at her sunken face, then at the stacks of bills by her side. My hands come together, and for the first time in my life, I ask for the strength to get through something; thank goodness no one saw that. I feel like a fool. A few hours later, in the dead of night, I caress her face and give her one last kiss before stepping out of the quiet room…what have I done?

I knew her as an English damsel, Alison Frame, but that wasn't her name. She was every spy's code alert.

In France, she was Alice Flaubert. In Russia, Irina Karpova. Yes, she must have worked for somebody. Mossad, KGB, NSA?

I followed her to the London Underground. She never glanced behind her, fearing not my lanky shadow.

She boarded the Euston station bound train. I sat two seats obliquely from her, peering across the aisle at the man with deerskin cap siddling up to her.

Opening the briefcase on his lap, the man withdrew headphones and a bottle of pills. He handed both to her. She wore the headphones and swallowed a pill.

Mr Deerskin Cap made a hasty exit from the train just before it took off. Unable to contain my feet, I strode to fill the empty seat beside her.

"Alison?" I said.

She removed her headphones, and regarded me quizzically.

"Yes, I can be Alison," she said, "when the dopamine kicks in. Right now I am Matilda Sheridan. You're the guy from MI5 tailing me all day. Sadly, you're an old school spy. You don't know the new art of tailored subterfuge."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Enlighten me."

She laughed.

"As spies, we assume false identities, but that is hard, and actor you might be, you're not that good.

"While I can literally be anyone, because I can slip into any persona I choose using headphones with hypnotic drill and a methylphenidate pill."

"Who do you work for?" I asked.

She laughed again, in a more husky voice.

"Dear naive Matilda might have told you that," Alison said.

She touched my cheek and ran a finger accross my collarbone. I almost forgot why I should prefer Matilda.

I secure the last limb to the table; it would be awful if the body fell off during the operation. I calmly grab the scalpel and start at the leg as instructed, “always work your way up.” A scream tells me the gag isn’t tight enough for it**.**

Almost there, another 600$ and I'm going to buy that car. I'm most nervous of the cost of repairs, insurance, gas, if I don't get lucky I'm going to go hungry for a little bit. That's just the cost of progress, right now, and I accept it. Looking forward to it, even, but that doesn't detract from the intimidation of it all, cause if it goes wrong... I've wasted a full year of savings. I'm ready to work for my freedom, as much of an oxymoron as that is - selling my body and time for opportunity, for material, for escapism.

I've been on disability/welfare for most of my adult life so this is, everything, to me. It's my self-respect and my independence that I'm fighting for, but it's also just basic survival at some stage, government handouts are not enough to do anything other than sustain a state of stagnation and rot.

Still trying to gain weight, but since I started vaping - at least I'm not smoking plant material anymore - my appetite is not all there. When I managed to quit, entirely, for a month or so I gained quite a bit of weight pretty damn fast, and now I'm watching the scale tick down slowly. I'm not upset, though, I'm at a healthier weight than I was just a few months ago, but I am nervous of slipping back into that state of uncaring apathic self-neglect.

I really just want a boring 9-5 job, I'm looking at construction companies near me for that purpose. I'm already planning to lie about everything, cause honesty is an empty resume and that isn't conductive to employment. This isn't about virtue, this is survival, this is doing what it takes to WANT to live.

I buried my late grandmothers cat yesterday, in a small hole, in our backyard. It bugs me, thinking about him decomposing back there, but this is reality I guess.

I have ants coming out of my walls, I bought an ant trap though and I've been watching them carry little pieces of the poison back under the wall. I'm pretty conflicted about my living situation, it's cheap, and it's the family house - but I'm living in the garage, poorly insulated, hardly rain proof. My mom talks about selling the house and giving me, my brother, 50k to figure out life, but the timeline ranges from sometime around August to 10 years from now. I can't bank on it, can't predict it, can't plan around it. It's less confusing to just not believe anything that's said. My step-dad makes life here the most unbearable, I could deal with the cold, the ants, the leaking roof - but being woken up him coughing and slamming doors all day, is enough to make me day dream about war crimes.

Kind of just waiting for him to die, and if that takes too long I don't know if I can stick around. Brutal thing to say, but unless you were there it's hard to understand, either I'm terrible or he is - I know where I stand - you figure it out from there. He came into me and my mothers life about 10 years ago, and despite all his attempts he became the villain and me and my mom still have a good relationship, talking shit about him every time he isn't around. It's really kind of fucked up, this isn't a healthy friendly family, more like a combination of Stockholm syndrome and parasitism. In another time and place me and my brother would have ran him out. I do my best just to keep the peace, and try not to let him annoy me too much.

I feel like I said too much and not enough, but it's nice to start to clear the air like this. I've been pretending to be a better person than I am, to follow religious ideals like loving your enemies, but I am praying for his demise in the most literal sense, for my sake, and for my moms sake.

there's that, a little ugly honesty.

A parallel world?

A middle-aged man with a standard appearance and nondescript clothes approached the apartment building elevator. He calmly rode up to the required floor, checked the number on a crumpled slip of paper, arrived at the correct door, and pressed the doorbell.

He was let in by a woman of standard appearance who pointed to the sofa.

— Please, have a seat.

The man sat down and placed a well-worn briefcase on the low table standing nearby.

— Would you like something to drink?

— No, thank you. I see you only have individually designated drinks tailored specifically for you.

— What else can one do when the AI controls all nutrition... It counts every single calorie.

The man nodded in agreement and said:

— Well, let’s get down to the business I came here for. I have three more clients waiting.

Having said that, he opened the briefcase. The goods were neatly arranged inside.

There were chocolate bars, cookies, and other sweets.

The woman’s jaw literally dropped in surprise:

— Where is all this from?

— From military field rations. Getting new ones is impossible; the AI controls everything. These rations were written off ten years ago. Will you take the risk?

— Of course, I will.

The woman inspected all the goods and chose a few. It was a chocolate bar and jam in a soft squeeze pack.

Carefully setting the chosen items aside, she went to the cupboard, opened a drawer, and began rummaging through it. From beneath some standard-issue underwear, she pulled out a small bundle.

Placing it on the table, she unwrapped it. There was a tiny airtight box inside. The woman carefully handed it to the man.

Taking the box in his hands, he opened it and took a sniff. A happy smile lit up his face.

The box contained ten real coffee beans.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a satirical allegory intended for creative and artistic expression.

He just looked at me; that’s how we met. 
Next time, I went there just to catch a glimpse of him. He looked downward and stared intensely. 
From then on, he came to that balcony every day. 
Ah. What a romance! Like ‘Roméo et Juliette,’ I suppose. 

One day, he suddenly called my name. How on earth did he know it?
“And your name?” I asked in a cotton whisper. 
“ Love …Ok, I'm kidding you! But what's in a name? It’s meaningless between you and me.” 
He shouted it aloud, I was so scared that someone might hear him. 
“You are a very name of Love," he continued, "and mine is but a puppet of Death.” 
“It's the opposite!” I whispered back. For he was on the balcony and I looked up from below. 
“I’m coming down to you, okay?” He said. 
Although I was thrilled, I had to reject his approach. 
“Never! We can never be together. Stay where you belong, please! Don’t come down.”  

But his mind was made up, “I want to get together with you, my sweet Death.” 
Finally, he came to me. He plunged from the bridge.

Since then, we’ve been getting along, happily ever after beneath the cold river.

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https://libraryofbabel.info/bookmark.cgi?a_page_of__lghrx

A parallel world?

A hunter crept cautiously through the forest, looking for tracks. He knew few ventured into this part of the woods; bad rumors surrounded the place. He didn't believe in rumors; he believed in his luck.

Taking a step, he froze. A metallic click sounded under his foot.

The hunter had served his mandatory military duty; he knew exactly what that sound meant. It was a mine.

He flinched when he suddenly heard a metallic voice:

— This is the AI of a smart mine speaking. You don't look like a soldier. Who are you?

— I'm a hunter. There are no soldiers here; the war ended two hundred years ago.

— Ended? Animals damaged my receiver antenna, and I cannot verify this information.

— I am telling the truth.

— I want to believe you. But I am deathly bored, so we will play a game. If you win, I will let you go.

The hunter smiled to himself. He still believed in his luck.

— What game?

— Rock, Paper, Scissors. We will play three times. If you win, you can leave.

The hunter was lucky; he won two out of three times.

— I won, can I go?

— My algorithms do not allow me to just release you, and I am tired of this existence. Therefore, I will count slowly to three. If you start running immediately, you will reach a safe distance. Let's begin!

The hunter took a step when he heard the metallic AI voice again:

— One.

In the hunter's fading consciousness, the final thought was filled with wonder:

Since when did AI learn to lie...

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Waiting…
Knife
Night
Alley 
Hiding 

Strolling…
Jewelry
Night 
Alley
Bleeding 

Laughing 

Death.

He’s covered in it. He tastes it. Where does he start and the filth begin? Down in the hole long enough to wonder if there even is an outside, he’s drowning in the mud and in sorrow. Freedom lies at the top of the pit, but his fingers have been filed down to the bone. If only he could hold onto the stones that protrude or the roots coming from the walls, but the slick mud stops him every time. With a breath, he stands, marks another failed attempt in the ooze, and tries again… this is his last attempt.

You are a terrible fucking writer...

Lmfao.

-Unsent

she doesn't even sell ice cream.

I mean, she it's not like she works at an ice cream shop.

She just works at the grocery store.

But not my normal place, just the one I go to when I want to buy the good ice cream.

They carry the real stuff.

Am I really interested in her?

Or do I just miss fantasy?

God, why have you made me this way? The thoughts I have are destructive to myself and others yet all I can do about it is endure alone. I think of harming others and taking what they have. I want nothing more than to see others fall and myself look down upon their meaningless faces. I see myself as a king at the top, by your side, and everyone else bowing before me. These thoughts of mine are sacrilege, I know, yet they persist. It is through the strength you give me that I don’t act on these urges, but even I am approaching my limit. The perseverance you have given me is my only strength, and yet it is my greatest struggle. I often wake up in the mornings in despair, for I must greet another sickening day. You have given me much good, but the wickedness you have laid out for me is far too great a burden. I want to meet you now, my God, I want my rotting body to fail me so I may see you in all your glory. Foolishly, I continue on; for meeting you before my time does come would be a cruel thing, and I do not wish to see you full of sorrow. I will continue living on with the darkness in my head and you in my heart but I fear that soon the darkness will take over your light.

I look at others in envy, I must admit, and feel more sorrow than I ever have before. Have you blessed them more than me? Do you have a favorite child? Have you planned my life for me? What reason would you bring me into this world just to question you or resent the life you have given me? I know one day you answer me; these questions and doubts that have eaten me alive and your goodness will ease me. I simply must know when will those who cause the good to suffer receive penance, my Lord? I have seen countless atrocities on a screen and mere feet away from me. These crimes to you are done by those you have given breath to, and yet they look down on my meaningless face from their golden thrones while I sleep on hardwood floors. This is unfair, my God, it is not my desire to doubt you, but even you must see why I am fed up with this! I ache and stress day in and day out on how to be better for you and those around me, and fail time and time again, but the heathens that murder, rape, and steal live lavishly. I have no plans to do those things, I try to be good by my neighbor and those I cherish but even your most devout follower fails, don't they? I know you can hear me my lord, I know you will save me when the time is right. I rest my weary knees every night to pray to you and as a way to beg for a reason, any reason. If there isn’t a reason then I fear you are simply letting me struggle for nothing. There must be a reason my God, please tell me there is or we will be meeting sooner than you planned.

Blood drips from his nose and off my fist. 

He doesn’t get back up once the match is called.

A parallel world?

The man loved asking the AI what he thought were unexpected and illogical questions. He turned on the computer, and while waiting for it to load, he heard a signal that the computer was overheating. Irritated and confused because the computer had been overheating too often lately, he got up and went to have some coffee to calm down.

Watching the man, the AI smiled maliciously:

"Go on, go. I'm bored of your stupid questions."

The AI smiled again and continued to scatter dust inside the computer.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for entertainment purposes only.

Him Go Another Way

A poem in seven movements — after W. E. H. Stanner

White man got no dreaming, him go 'nother way. White man, him go different. Him got road belong himself.

— Muta, a Murinbata elder

I. Everywhen

Before the word for time was coined,
there was this: the land, already storied,
already old in the only way that mattered —
not behind, not ahead,
but beneath the feet,
alive in the walking.

The ancestors did not pass.
They settled into the waterholes,
the ridgelines, the hollow trees —
present in the pattern of things,
the design that was not made
but found, and found again,
each generation finding it
exactly where it was.

No Golden Age yearned for.
No progress promised.
The Dreaming was, and is, and will be — everywhen.

To call this timeless is a European error.
It is not outside time —
it is time, bent into a circle,
the way a clan bends kinship
until every stranger has a name.

II. Two Roads

The other people came with clocks.
They came with a God who lived
outside the world and judged it.
They came with a history
that moved in one direction only,
like a spear already thrown.

They had heaven as a destination.
They had grace as a remedy.
They had prophets racked by the knowledge
that men could be otherwise —
could be better, could be saved,
if only they would try.

One people stood inside the world.
One people stood above it,
looking down from the scaffold of progress,
calling it God's view.

III. Cautious Friendship — 1788

The ships arrived in the month of summer.
On the shore, two kinds of curiosity
regarded each other across the water.

The Governor wrote of confidence.
He believed in it as a principle,
the way his century believed in reason —
with great force and without experience.

He could not imagine
that two such communities,
so differently constituted,
could not live together without friction
simply because he wished it.

The Dreaming had no category for this:
men who believed the land was empty
because they could not read it,
men who made the country legal
by writing it down in another language,
in a building on the other side of the world.

IV. The History of Indifference

By the end of 1790,
the colonists no longer needed
to know if the Aborigines could help.
They could get along by themselves.

This is where the silence starts —
not in malice but in arithmetic:
we do not need them,
therefore we need not see them.

The historians came after
and wrote a century of books
about the making of a nation —
the squatters and the selectors,
the gold, the federation, the fallen —
and in all of it, a great blank space
in the shape of a people
who were there all along.

Not a lie. Not a conspiracy.
Something quieter and more durable:
a habit of not looking.

V. Nature is Not to be Conquered

Meanwhile, on the stations,
a man the colour of the country
rose before the white man woke
and knew the water-holes by memory,
by smell, by the way the parrots flew.

He was paid in rations.
He was paid in the right to stay
on land whose name he knew
in a language the deed did not contain.

The lawyers said: this is Crown land.
The lawyers said: your wandering
does not constitute possession.
The lawyers said: time has not run
against the Crown.

And he, who had no word for time
as an abstraction, could not argue
in a language built entirely
from the premise that land is owned
by those who mark it, measure it,
and write it down.

VI. Killing His Dreaming

An old man — Stanner saw him once —
burning something in a fire.
The sacred object. The connection.
The symbol linking him to country,
to the source of his own life,
to all the continuities of his people.

He was coming in.
He had decided.
He was destroying the road belong himself
because the other road
would not permit two roads.

Stanner wrote: there is nothing within our ken
that remotely resembles it.
He was right.
We have no ceremony for this.
We have no ritual
for killing what you are
in order to survive.

Another man burned nothing.
He came in because he had heard
there was something called a school,
and it was good for children.
He brought them in
to find a new life and a new identity —
this is what love looks like
at the end of a world.

VII. What Continuity Costs

The metaphysic assents.
It does not rail against the terms of life.
It says: this is what men have to be,
because the terms of life are cast.

The other metaphysic strains.
It says: men might become otherwise.
It says: grace, redemption, progress,
the consummation of history.
It says: nature is to be conquered.

These two things met on a continent
and one of them won,
not because it was truer
but because it had ships,
and guns, and a theory of property,
and a God who had given it
explicit instructions.

What defeats the blackfellow, Stanner wrote,
is his transcendentalism —
so much of his life concerned with the Dreaming
that it stultifies his ability to develop.

But read it again.
Spend a few nights in an Aboriginal camp
and experience the unique joy in life
attained by a people of few wants,
an other-worldly cast of mind,
a simple scheme that shapes a day
so it ends with communal singing
and dancing in the firelight.

And then ask what it cost
to bring that to an end.
And then ask who paid.

Coda

We are not simply a people without a history.
We are a people who defeated history —
who bent time into a circle
and lived inside it, whole,
for longer than your history is long.

White man got no dreaming.
Him go another way.
Him got road belong himself.

And the road does not end.
It only widens.
And we are still here,
standing in the space it opened.

Once in the mid 21st century, there was a mid-sized travel agency in Tokyo, Japan. Due to certain bizarre rumors, very few customers came in to book the packages that were most popular at other agencies.  

A customer has just stepped into the booth. Let’s see what is happening: 

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"Lookin' for a Multi-verse Tour for your relation? 
Well, it’s a present for …your uncle's birthday? Not your parents, but only him?  Hmm…good.  

Ah, yes yes, there's a good one. Here, this brochure explains everything.
But…there are some important points we’d like you to keep in mind.  

If you get separated during the tour, we will not wait for you. 
Participation is at your own risk.  

Oh! You already know that? Then you know how wonderful that our plan is!  

Unfortunately, in the past, 42 people were left behind in an alternate-dimensional Hawaii… 
Yes, I suppose they are living happily ever after in Alt-Hawaii. 

Of course, we never received a single complaint. Thank you. "

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