4.7 The Arm of the Lawed

Might vs Right ~ Jill Freedman (1968)

“Is everything alright sir” said the policeman, finding it unnecessary to whistle any in or out of tune tune. No room for that sort of frivolity inside a policeman’s black uniform; and besides, the silver whistle around his neck more than compensated for any loss of frivolity.
“Are we lost sir?” Atom was confused by the policeman’s amazing ability not to ask real questions.
Apart from the whistle, a policeman’s life is rather a grim one, dealing as it does in misery and misdemeanour. It is in honour of the seriousness of his duties that a policeman carries a baton; one which is easy to swing and hard on the causes of crime.
“Wot’s your name sir?”
“…erm Atom”
“Erm Atom?”
“…erm yes”
“Right Mr Atom, may I inquire as to what you are doing in the cemetery at night?”
“…”
For the innocent man it is difficult to know the correct answer to a policeman’s questions / For the guilty man it is far easier since he would have made the answers up earlier.
“Loitering” Said the policeman.
The pious man chose that moment to make his presence known by phlemulously clearing his throat.
“Do you know this man Your Holiness?” asked the policeman, his tone now turned professional.
“We have only just met,” said the pious man, “He came looking for something; apparently believing himself free of sin since he appeared disinclined to make (or is it take?) confession. I feel duty bound before the community (and before God) to voice the suspicion that he is either hiding something or hiding from something.”
The policeman hit Atom across the head with his baton.
Somewhere a fuse-wire melted and the lights went out.

Whom The Gods Notice

Looking up at the violence
That fuels the afternoon sky
Lifts the girl who started running
On the day she learned to walk
After they replaced her withered limbs
With articulate steel
That spoke to her of horizons
Wider than the smile
Adorning her tear-stained face
Spoke of loss and rumour
In tones approaching light
And left a trail of ghost dust
Pixel fine in bas-relief
For following detectives hired
By exoskeletal surgeons
To track down the steel legs
Of the girl who started running
The day she learned to walk

Constellations

Jean Francois LePage

Sigma watched from her window as the night-bus passengers scuttled for cover under the protective overhang of the station. The rain was light and Sigma wondered at the species’ aversion to the water from which they stemmed. She sucked on the inch-long joint, allowing the sweet smoke to perfume her purple room with those silver curlicues that fractal out into the night.
And were it not for the polluting yellow lights from the station, she felt she might see home out there in the vacuum of the sky. But the yellow lights held sway; illuminating the diagonal rain and reflecting amber on the tarmac; rippling solar systems in their own right.
A fresh load of commuters now boarded, the night-bus lifted off, its engines distorting the light beneath, its kinetic hum adding tone to Sigma’s city soundtrack.
A drop of water from the overhanging sill extinguished the orange coal of her joint with a hiss causing Sigma to focus on it, cross-eyed and bemused.
Her train of thought thus broken, she returned to the orb on the table, immersing herself in its alien waters while the rain increased its hissing protest against the overhang of the station.

4.6 A Plastic Minefield

Half Breed ~ Richard Salcido

There was a gate to the left of the church doors. It squeaked reassuringly as Atom entered a shady field to the side of the church.
The field had been decorated with rows of grey headstones, all shaped the same, like a mass grave for an army of massacred men; men torn down by the rotating blades of technological warfare on a distant planet where life is considered cheap in comparison to capital gain.
Atom peered at the nearest headstone; the inscription read:

Here lies Atom
He was one of a kind

Coincidentally the next headstone carried the same inscription. And the next… and the next. After checking headstones at random for some minutes, Atom came to the conclusion (using statistical probability as a guide) that all of the headstones carried the same inscription.
Atom held the answer at bay with the idea that perhaps they were fucking with his head. It was an idea that he was not sure he preferred in favour of the alternative, but it was his idea so he held onto it.

Radical Antifreeze

Jenn Violetta

Winter settled upon his soul like portent; a blanket for his melancholia, keeping it alive and allowing it to eat away at the thin veneer of optimism that he liked to hold up to the world.
Snow-covered roads disguised the face of the system; gave it a mask of calm; as if it wasn’t collapsing under the weight of its own greed; as if the cracks were repairable with mere frozen water.
Passers-by hiked their collars and avoided eye contact in the vain hope that their anonymity would protect them from the future; from the moment when they would have to be truthful with themselves; from the day when no object would afford solace.
To top it all, nature had declared itself unreliable: birds became entangled in overhead wires or trapped down chimneys where they fluttered and struggled for days, bringing uncomfortable dreams to suburban bedrooms; domestic pets failed to turn, watched from their cages as their captors whittled away at themselves with the blunt knives of ignorance; sheep broke free from the herd and set up radical political enclaves, their wool-gathering dreadlock-thick and matted.
In the hallowed traffic jams the cars muttered to themselves, resentful of fact that their days were deemed numbered, while their operators gesticulated and genuflected at random intervals, their thoughts by turns murderous and hopeless, their actions futile against the onslaught of winter.

4.5 Heartbreak H.O.T.L.

Maria Sardari

Passed the police station, passed the courthouse, passed the prison; Atom ran like his life depended on it (and who’s to say it didn’t?), his gangly legs like swinging sevens, his white ankles flashing above his dusty new shoes.
Ahead in the afternoon haze appeared an old stone church with an inordinately tall steeple and a flashing blue neon sign above the doors. As he drew closer Atom was able to distinguish the word ‘SANCTUARY’ in that curly script particular to the neon art.
Inside a pious man whistled a tuneless hymn.
“Welcome my son”
“You’re my dad?” Atom didn’t believe it for a second.
“What brings you into the House Of The Lord young man?”
“I’m trying to find out if anyone has left me some sort of message,” said Atom after scratching his head vigorously, “surely there must be some instructions, some sort of goby^[5]”
“The Lord has a message for everyone my s… young man,” the pious man cleared his throat catarrhously; “We have but to listen for us to hear it.”
Atom listened while the pious man watched him listen.
God said nothing.
“I can’t hear anything” said Atom.
“I con tear knee thing” echoed the church.
“Perhaps there is something stopping God’s voice reaching your ears; some guilt?”
“Whatchu mean?” said Atom, quietly, the PO-Box burning against his breast.
“Would you care to make your confession through me? I am god’s representative on earth.” The pious man puffed out his chest in an attempt to portray his importance, an act made difficult by the fact that he did not wear a tie.
The PO-Box made a pinging feeling against Atom’s breast.
“Excuse me” he said to the pious man (who proceeded to whistle a different tuneless hymn).
Atom turned away, withdrew the PO-Box from his pocket and opened it to reveal the following message:

IN MY CAPACITY AS YOUR LAWYER/NANNY/BODYGUARD AND GENERAL DOGSBODY (YUCK) IT IS MY DUTY TO ADVISE YOU NOT TO SAY ANYTHING INCRIMINATING. THE LAW DECREES THAT IGNORANCE IS NOT A VALID DEFENCE AGAINST STUPIDITY. TRUST NOBODY; EXPECT THE WORST ~ C

“I…” Atom turned back, keeping the PO-Box behind his back, “I need to go.”
“Where to?” asked the pious man, “What are you hiding in your hands?”
“Nothing” Atom said idly, showed him his hands (one at a time, keeping the PO-Box hidden in the hand not being shown)
“The devil finds hands for idol work” said the pious man.
“Okay” said atom as he headed out the door.

As Cajones watched from the monitor in the woods he was taken (as he often was) by how easily this particular species is confused by simple stories of good and evil, black and white; cat and dog.

^[5]Editor’s Observation: Whether by some genetic osmosis or by pure coincidence, Atom appears to have repeated one of those popular micro-phrases employed by the Meetingspeak people. The Meetingspeakers have it as one of their many strange beliefs that a piece of paper used on a previous job may be reused on the current job by merely changing the headers and footers so that the resultant piece of new paper carries the title of the current job. The act of doing so is termed “a goby” (go-by) and is believed to save everyone the hassle of rethinking a job that has already been completed successfully.

Dust

Photo by Joey L

I don’t want you slipping away
Like dust on the lip of counters grey
Conducting business concrete creep
I'll blow with the wind that bids me pay

I can feel you slipping away
Can’t hold on to what I’ve broken
Like all those toys and radios
That didn’t answer to what I'd spoken

Twenty years cannot erode
Like paint that peels the days away
Marks me down as also-ran or raconteur
Time will stand my colours to display

Twenty years cannot erode
Nor lighten the unspoken burden
That lies between us uncertain
A weight that creaks the blowing curtain

Twenty years slipping away
Like dew on the lip of morning fey
These crystalline thoughts cannot endure
The interactive onslaught of today

4.4 Pride Comes Before

Atom looked inside the letterbox (it was empty) before closing its flap and putting it in his inside breast pocket. The man smoothed the (rather impressive) blue, red and white striped tie to his chest, appearing (If Atom had cared to see) to be under the impression that he’d got the better end of the deal.
Perhaps he had, since he certainly looked more important that he had when Atom had first entered the post office.
Atom stood outside the post office, the letter box in his pocket filled him with a puffed up sense of achievement. (And why not, dear reader? After all, not every man can claim ownership of such prestigious tokens of success, especially not a man so young).
As the man from the post office appeared to suddenly remember something important, consulting a rather important looking red ledger, Atom felt himself to be a man of substance (although he was not sure which particular substance); he felt he had become a man to be reckoned with.
“Oi you” the man said, straightened his tie, “Give me back that PO-Box immediately; you’ve supplied me with false credentials,” he held out his hand, palm upward.
“Wha…?”
“Your name cannot be Atom: Atom is buried in the yard behind the church” he lifted his hand and shook his head, “The PO-Box sir?”
“Give me back my tie then”
“It’s not your tie sir”
Atom ran down the road with his hand pressed against his breast lest the PO-Box fall from his pocket.

4.3 First Class Stamps

Raven, Black... ~ Bogdan Zwir

The street slapped him with a noise writ in smoke and dust. The residents of this little town (it seemed to Atom) were in a hurry to get to destinations so diverse that no two could possibly be the same. And yet, Atom realised they all looked the same; as if all painted by the same artist (perhaps even in the artist’s own image).
Atom walked down the street, passed green hedges, passed a post office and a police station; passed a courthouse and a prison.
He stopped and returned to the Post Office.
The man behind the counter was very busy. He stared out at Atom while busying himself with a tuneless whistle.
Atom stood and waited for the man to be ready to serve him.
“The man raised his eyebrow (which spanned the full width of his forehead), “Yes sir?”
“Um…” Atom cleared his throat, “Do you have any letters for me?”
“No sir,” said the man, “This is a post office, not a letterbox”
He paused for an moment of a duration prescribed by official waiting guidelines before continuing, “If sir would like to receive letters from this particular post office” said the man, pulling a blue form B567(B1) toward himself, “sir would need to hire a letterbox”
“That sounds like a good idea” said Atom
“What size would sir require?”
“Well, it would need to be small enough to fit in my pocket” said Atom
“In what name would sir like to register the letterbox?”
“Well… up until a little earlier today I thought my name was Atom but this now appears not to be true.”
“Very interesting sir,” he emitted with a sigh that contradicted his words, “Atom is it?”
In rather neat handwriting he wrote the word “ATOM, MR.” and then “PO-Box^[4]” on the blue form B567(B1).
“There will be a small administration charge added to the rental fee sir” said the man, raising his mono-brow once more but keeping his eyes on the blue paper.
“I don’t have any money,” said Atom, “but I could trade you this tie”

^[4]POcket letterBOX

4.2 Health & Safety Pins

Luboff and Doves ~ Max Sauco

There is no room for hope in a room full of useless paper. Atom sat at the desk and looked at the wall of piled pages in front of him. He turned to look at the wall to his left and the wall to his right; both entirely obscured by piled pages. He picked a page at random: absurd questions arranged in a grid whose opposite end contained little squares with X’s arranged in random patterns, he picked another: the same; and another.
Agne had left him in search of his paperwork, ‘she may be some time’ he thought.
“I won’t be a jiffy,” she’s said, “help yourself to coffee.”
He tried the door. It opened out into the pale green corridor through which he and Agne had entered the building.
The corridor (it seemed to Atom) echoed with footsteps that had just passed out of earshot, an impression that did not go away even though Atom remained so, (head sticking out of the doorway at 90 degrees) for a long time.
“Fuck”
He stepped out into the corridor, mis-stepping clumsily over the piles of paper which caused his muddy new shoe to slap the stone floor into an echo much larger that the one he’d been listening for.
He headed for the entrance as quickly (and as casually) as he could muster under the echoing circumstances.
The receptionist behind the plastic desk whistled a tune with no purpose as she filed hiernails; Atom’s exit from the building caused the parting in the receptionist’s wig to change from the right to left side of her head.
“Please remember to hold onto the handrails when using the stairs” she called after the retreating back of Atom’s brown suit.

4.1 Dress Code

Dramargu ~ Chris Cold

“Good morning sir,” Said the woman at the gates to the town. She extended her hand palm downward, “I’m Agne, welcome to our little world.”
“Hi” Atom took her hand and jiggled it slightly for no apparent reason.
“May I just say, for the sake of completeness, that we here at Nullenvoid take pride in a strict and smart dress code, so I must insist that you do wear a tie before we proceed.”
Atom fumbled the tie from his pocket and somehow managed to present a reasonably knotted neck to Agne.
“Right,” she smiled professionally, “may I see your letter of introduction please.”
“I don’t remember getting one of those,” said Atom, “Perhaps I missed that bit…”
She stared at him, “Reception, they’ve just had a new system installed so things are a bit topsy-turvy at the moment” She stood for a long moment with a perplexed crease between her eyes; Atom wondered if she was going to eat him.
“We’ll get it sorted,” she said abruptly, “never you worry.”
Atom smiled shakily
“…and your name is, sir?”
“Err…Atom”
“Oh dear, they really didn’t give you anything did they?” she said, mostly to herself.
“Um… they gave me this suit”
“Come with me sir, we’ll get you sorted out with a desk and a pen and then we’ll get your paperwork in order.”

∞.3b Mad Scientist's Notebook

Entry: The Space-Crime Continuum

What makes a man so dull that he would pass through life (reeking of cabbage & cement) without regard to limits of his body mass?
It is not only a matter of common perception but also a scientific fact that two objects cannot occupy the same position in space.
On my journey to the laboratory this morning, the chair next to me on the early morning Maglev was (over)filled with a man who not only appeared ignorant of, but appeared hell-bent on disproving the above. While I sat reading over my notes on our latest subject’s progress through the maze, my travelling companion made no effort to maintain a decent separation between himself and me, his every movement infringed upon my personal space as if my very presence was of no consequence to his passage through the world.
I must allow for the possibility that this man is not at fault; that he has the right to make his way through the world while impinging on my right not to be leant on by a stranger. I must allow that my resentment at his very existence says more about me than it does about him.
In his defense it should be noted that although he did indeed reek of cabbage and cement, his bulk was irreconcilable with the constructive use of cement and implied a diet rather more substantial than vegetables.

∞.3a Cajones' Dream

(As Transposed by Pisces Iscariot ~ Unofficial Poet Laureate of Unwonderland)
Cutting across the field behind the houses, your scent sets the neighbourhood dogs to barking. Your moon-shadow casts black and silent on the eruptions of grass between discarded objects that smell of the people asleep in the houses, while the silver disk herself causes the fur on your spine to ripple like the restless birds in their night-time nests. And the scars on your face will remind you of her unprotected beauty, her own scars document her continuing conflict. And the light from her face is sucked in through the black holes of your night eyes like a wind carrying the scent of the night’s secrets; there to be devoured by your memories.
Through the noisy door flaps and ragged-tooth gaps in the faltering fences, to food left for forage and the fever of foreign smells, your night is unbound by the constraints of these creatures so large and so untrustworthy and yet so willing to give.

Franco Matticchio