a new short story
The Caterpillar Queen
by zm strother
It was that time, and the Oak Tree was alive! Its skin wriggled and creeped, a living carpet of furry yellow caterpillars who coursed from one branch to the next, in search of foliage and conversation.
Gillip munched his leaf with an air of distraction not suitable for the exquisite juiciness of his midday meal. While his top feet fed the fibers and flesh steadily into his jaws, the next four tugged idly at his coarse mustard bristles, and his red dodecahedron eyes drifted up to the dappled sunlight that pierced the upper branches. His mind wandered; he wondered who the Queen would choose. He already knew it wouldn't be him, but he wondered, all the same. At first he didn't notice the gentle tugging at his claws, so when his gaze floated back down he was surprised to see Duthel greedily tearing large chunks from the other end of his own leaf. Duthel's eyes were set, narrowed - uncompromising. Gillip abandoned his prize and inched around to the bottom of the branch. He gripped tightly with his rear segment, but let the rest of his body dangle free.
Gillip was not well liked. He was not a stunning conversationalist, and in the social world of caterpillars, that was a debilitating handicap. He was alone on the bottom-side; he was usually alone. He wished he could find the words. He imagined himself expounding on the virtues of acorn oil as a treatment for caterpillar cramps, surrounded by an enthralled audience. The illusion thinned. Gillip could see the others working their way to the Tree's great central bole. He tried to understand them; he tried to stare into their minds. He gave up. He considered joining them for ceremony, but he didn't think he could bear the frowns and stares that would be heaped on him. Gillip knew he didn't belong. And yet, his curiosity demanded satisfaction; even pariahs are subject to the fixations of celebrity, and he wanted to know who the Queen was going to choose. Then he was struck by an idea. He worked himself back to the top side and on to the trunk, the great central highway of the Oak Tree. He flowed with the crowd all the way to the Bole's entrance, and then kept going up. Up to the next branches he went, where he resumed his inverted position and was delighted to find that he had a spectacular view of the entire Bole and the teeming caterpillar population that steadily grew around its outer edge.
As the hour of the ceremony neared, Gillip's initial enthusiasm for his strategic position waned. He was overtaken again by niggling depression. He saw them all gathered below, and he knew his absence was conspicuous only in his own mind. To the rest of them, the lack of Gillip would be perceived, if at all, only as an unexplained relief from some awkward tension in the back of the mind. Gillip wept. Tiny caterpillar tears drifted as fractured starlight in the wind.
Then he felt something - an internal convulsion. He curled up and began to vomit - but all that issued forth was a sticky white paste! It poured out of him like water from a faucet at first, then in explosive bursts, but it would not stop. He gasped for breath in between wretches; on and on it went. He tried to crawl to the top side, but the white stickiness had hardened around his bottom section, and he could not escape. He flailed his free legs in wild rising panic, trying to wrench himself free. He succeeded in splattering ropes of plaster around himself and the surrounding branches.
Little by little his stomach unclenched and gravity helped him to droop down, but the vomiting still continued. His throat burned. He was choked with cold terror and bubbling froth. He was encased up to his midsection in white death. He could see the Queen below, obvious by of her tremendous size and her solitary position in the center of the Bole. Gillip could see a second slowly inching out to meet her. She had chosen, but he didn't care anymore. He was betrayed by his own body, possessed by some caterpillar demon, slowly drowning from the inside out by a rising concrete tide. He just wanted it to stop.
It surpassed the last of his legs. It was even with his jaws. His face was frozen downward, and he could see two caterpillars entwined below in the middle of the mating dance. It was the last thing he would ever see. He cursed them with his final breath, and spewed forth the final pieces of his stalactite tomb.
Ripping apart! Bursting forth! Sweet emergence, an unfolding rainbow of checkered diamonds, spiraling into fractal infinity. Gillip dropped into the open air, his wings carrying him on the sweet breath of Spring. He swooped low, low enough to see the Queen her post-coital feast. She sucked greedily at Duthel's desiccated remnants.
Gillip arched back up to the horizon and forth! He could have sworn something had been bothering him, but he couldn't remember what. He flew away and left it all behind.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
Universal
Presenting a short story:
Universal
by zm strother
They sat quietly on the floor, legs crossed, eyes closed, both breathing in time with the same universal cadence. He could feel the soft, ghostly tendrils of her thoughts as they snaked through the air between them and tickled at his nose, begging for his attention.
Ron, do you ever worry about life?
Everyone worries. It's part of the human condition.
But why?
Because it's difficult for us to accept things that are beyond our control.
But Ron, is anything really under our control?
Nothing but our own thoughts, I think.
I don't know... I often feel that my thoughts are beyond my control. I think things I wish I'd never thought, and once they've crawled in, I can't pry them out. My mind's eye stays focused there, right on that thing I wish I could forget, like a guard tower spotlight exposing an intruder.
Like what sorts of things?
Like my father dying, lying alone and still in the cancer ward at Union General.
But Lizzie, your father isn't dead. He doesn't even have cancer...
I know.
Then why would you think about that?
I don't know. I already told you I'd rather not think about it. I just can't help it.
I'm sorry I brought it up then.
It's ok, you didn't bring it up. I did.
A beat passes. Cars slither by beyond the window blinds, tiny pairs of illuminated eyes slicing through the milky darkness; shiny, multicolored fishes swimming up the winding asphalt stream. And then,
Ron, I worry sometimes that I'll never do the things in life that I really want to do.
What do you mean?
I mean like writing a novel or traveling to Southeast Asia or really falling wildly in love in that way where it still feels authentic, even after it all falls apart. I feel like I've given away all my minutes to the Big Bad World and I'm about to wake up and they're all gone.
Another beep. Beyond the window, a thousand strangers shuffling within feet of each other, so close, but never farther from real touch.
Lizzie, do you know much about physics?
Not really.
Well, you've heard of the Big Bang?
Yeah...
I like to think about that. Everything that ever was or will be, all crushed up together in one unimaginably tiny little point, so powerful together that it twisted up the ideas of time and space into something beyond our comprehension.
So at least there was one moment when we were all there together - inseparable. It's sad that it couldn't last.
Maybe. There's this idea in physics, this Universal Constant; if all of the matter in the Universe all put together is exactly equal to this constant, then it means we all have just enough pull on each other to stop everything from rushing apart from that first bang. The expansion of the Universe slows down, then stops - it's stasis. The Happy Medium.
And what happens if there's not enough matter in the Universe?
Then we keep drifting apart, until everything is nothing and we're all cold and dead and alone. But I don't believe that.
Beep. The tendrils of thought ran from his nose across his cheek, so soft that it wasn't really a touch. Like a gentle breeze fingering his earlobe and winding through his hair.
So mama bear, you believe the amount of matter in the Universe is juuuuust right? We'll reach that magic balancing point?
No Lizzie, I'm a papa bear - I think there's too much matter in the Universe.
And what happens then?
Well, we slow down, then we stop, and then we change direction, and finally we all rush back together again...
That sounds nice.
I think so too. We end up just where we began, and play the story out all over again. And eventually, we all rush back together yet again.
And again and again?
Yes, on and on into the past and the future, forever and beyond. It's neater that way. You don't have to worry about beginnings and endings. And besides, with each explosion outward, those billions of billions of particles must shoot out just a little differently, and then a brand new Universe unfolds in the empty eons. That means infinite opportunities - infinite realities. Everything you've ever dreamed of, not only is it possible, it's inevitable...
*BEEP*
And he was close to her, whispering in her ear. "You'll be resurrected after every downtrodden day, and you'll be there to live out every dream you've ever dreamed..."
"Hallelujah." The bridge of her nose tickled the little hairs of his neck.
*BEEP*
The lightest grazes of lips, so sensitive, so electric! The ghostly thought tentacles reached into deeper, darker places, places they shouldn't
*BEEP*
no matter, an eternity left to regret, a moment only to taste and savor
*BEEP*
sweet sensation
*BEEP*
the relentless metronome beat of the heart monitor pulled him back. Red light washed the far end of the room. He could just see the illuminated "LARENEG" of the hospital's neon sign reflected in the distant plate glass. It was dark outside. Quiet night. A silent army of tiny ants with glowing eyes marched across an invisible black ribbon beyond the bend of the hospital wing. A few of the other beds were inhabited by silent piles of defeated life. It was still. Nothing and no one to be awake for. Ron's thumb clenched, depressing the button of his morphine drip. Better to be asleep.
Universal
by zm strother
They sat quietly on the floor, legs crossed, eyes closed, both breathing in time with the same universal cadence. He could feel the soft, ghostly tendrils of her thoughts as they snaked through the air between them and tickled at his nose, begging for his attention.
Ron, do you ever worry about life?
Everyone worries. It's part of the human condition.
But why?
Because it's difficult for us to accept things that are beyond our control.
But Ron, is anything really under our control?
Nothing but our own thoughts, I think.
I don't know... I often feel that my thoughts are beyond my control. I think things I wish I'd never thought, and once they've crawled in, I can't pry them out. My mind's eye stays focused there, right on that thing I wish I could forget, like a guard tower spotlight exposing an intruder.
Like what sorts of things?
Like my father dying, lying alone and still in the cancer ward at Union General.
But Lizzie, your father isn't dead. He doesn't even have cancer...
I know.
Then why would you think about that?
I don't know. I already told you I'd rather not think about it. I just can't help it.
I'm sorry I brought it up then.
It's ok, you didn't bring it up. I did.
A beat passes. Cars slither by beyond the window blinds, tiny pairs of illuminated eyes slicing through the milky darkness; shiny, multicolored fishes swimming up the winding asphalt stream. And then,
Ron, I worry sometimes that I'll never do the things in life that I really want to do.
What do you mean?
I mean like writing a novel or traveling to Southeast Asia or really falling wildly in love in that way where it still feels authentic, even after it all falls apart. I feel like I've given away all my minutes to the Big Bad World and I'm about to wake up and they're all gone.
Another beep. Beyond the window, a thousand strangers shuffling within feet of each other, so close, but never farther from real touch.
Lizzie, do you know much about physics?
Not really.
Well, you've heard of the Big Bang?
Yeah...
I like to think about that. Everything that ever was or will be, all crushed up together in one unimaginably tiny little point, so powerful together that it twisted up the ideas of time and space into something beyond our comprehension.
So at least there was one moment when we were all there together - inseparable. It's sad that it couldn't last.
Maybe. There's this idea in physics, this Universal Constant; if all of the matter in the Universe all put together is exactly equal to this constant, then it means we all have just enough pull on each other to stop everything from rushing apart from that first bang. The expansion of the Universe slows down, then stops - it's stasis. The Happy Medium.
And what happens if there's not enough matter in the Universe?
Then we keep drifting apart, until everything is nothing and we're all cold and dead and alone. But I don't believe that.
Beep. The tendrils of thought ran from his nose across his cheek, so soft that it wasn't really a touch. Like a gentle breeze fingering his earlobe and winding through his hair.
So mama bear, you believe the amount of matter in the Universe is juuuuust right? We'll reach that magic balancing point?
No Lizzie, I'm a papa bear - I think there's too much matter in the Universe.
And what happens then?
Well, we slow down, then we stop, and then we change direction, and finally we all rush back together again...
That sounds nice.
I think so too. We end up just where we began, and play the story out all over again. And eventually, we all rush back together yet again.
And again and again?
Yes, on and on into the past and the future, forever and beyond. It's neater that way. You don't have to worry about beginnings and endings. And besides, with each explosion outward, those billions of billions of particles must shoot out just a little differently, and then a brand new Universe unfolds in the empty eons. That means infinite opportunities - infinite realities. Everything you've ever dreamed of, not only is it possible, it's inevitable...
*BEEP*
And he was close to her, whispering in her ear. "You'll be resurrected after every downtrodden day, and you'll be there to live out every dream you've ever dreamed..."
"Hallelujah." The bridge of her nose tickled the little hairs of his neck.
*BEEP*
The lightest grazes of lips, so sensitive, so electric! The ghostly thought tentacles reached into deeper, darker places, places they shouldn't
*BEEP*
no matter, an eternity left to regret, a moment only to taste and savor
*BEEP*
sweet sensation
*BEEP*
the relentless metronome beat of the heart monitor pulled him back. Red light washed the far end of the room. He could just see the illuminated "LARENEG" of the hospital's neon sign reflected in the distant plate glass. It was dark outside. Quiet night. A silent army of tiny ants with glowing eyes marched across an invisible black ribbon beyond the bend of the hospital wing. A few of the other beds were inhabited by silent piles of defeated life. It was still. Nothing and no one to be awake for. Ron's thumb clenched, depressing the button of his morphine drip. Better to be asleep.
Friday, January 4, 2013
January 2013 Topic: Rebirth
So it might not seem terribly revolutionary to ponder the notions of rebirth and renewal in the month of January, but I believe this is one instance where a cliche has earned its staying power because of its essential and important nature. Taking time to assess ourselves and finding opportunities to re-imagine life through fresh eyes are necessary elements in the life of the mind.
So in that spirit, enjoy for the next month my thoughts and fiction on the topic of rebirth. Despite the fact that this is the pilot month of this little project of mine, I hope to receive some of your own enlightened meditations on this subject, oh swamis of the world.
*ohm*
So in that spirit, enjoy for the next month my thoughts and fiction on the topic of rebirth. Despite the fact that this is the pilot month of this little project of mine, I hope to receive some of your own enlightened meditations on this subject, oh swamis of the world.
*ohm*
Submissions
etude accepts all varieties of literary submission, subject to a few conditions.
1) Please keep written submissions to 1,000 words or less, in the interest of presenting manageable amounts of information.
2) etude has sole, unquestionable discretion over what it publishes.
With those two conditions in mind, please send your submissions to: etude
1) Please keep written submissions to 1,000 words or less, in the interest of presenting manageable amounts of information.
2) etude has sole, unquestionable discretion over what it publishes.
With those two conditions in mind, please send your submissions to: etude
The Concept
I had a revelation this New Years' Week: we always reap the fruits of the seeds we sew with our waking hours. I thought about all of the things I would like to do or to be, and I wondered what had stopped me from achieving those goals. Why wasn't I more fit? Why hadn't I spent more time writing stories and songs? Why hadn't I learned another language?
It was an exception from my own life that helped me connect the dots and understand the rule: Running.
I've always aspired to be a runner. When I sat down to write my bucket list, running a marathon was the first item I thought to put down. However, like many people I had a very hard time to maintain a consistent running routine. As of a year and a half ago I hadn't come any closer to running a marathon than a very occasional 3-mile jog around the neighborhood. But with the help of my beautiful wife/training partner, I ran my first 5k race, and then my first 10k, and then my first half marathon. I'm signed up to run my first full marathon in 4 months (which mystically and coincidentally I will be doing when I am 26 years and 2 days old).
All growth happens in increments!
And in that spirit, I realized that if I wanted writing to be a bigger part of my life, the solution was simple - I need to spend more time writing. This is the inspiration for etude.
What? Think of etude as a revolving invitation to flex the undernourished, creative, philosophical corner of your mind. Each month, a new topic will be chosen. I will publish a series of my own essays or other writings which stem from, relate to, or perhaps tangentially caress the topic. I will also solicit the wonderful minds from my circle of friends to submit their work as well. And lastly, I will accept reader submissions!
What am I looking for? Anything! Deep reflections, humorous musings, treatises, allegorical fiction, sonnets, free verse, and whatever else you've got as well. The intent of etude is to give us all the opportunity to cultivate in ourselves the thinking, reflective, artistic aspect in all of its manifestations.
Hit me with your best shot.
It was an exception from my own life that helped me connect the dots and understand the rule: Running.
I've always aspired to be a runner. When I sat down to write my bucket list, running a marathon was the first item I thought to put down. However, like many people I had a very hard time to maintain a consistent running routine. As of a year and a half ago I hadn't come any closer to running a marathon than a very occasional 3-mile jog around the neighborhood. But with the help of my beautiful wife/training partner, I ran my first 5k race, and then my first 10k, and then my first half marathon. I'm signed up to run my first full marathon in 4 months (which mystically and coincidentally I will be doing when I am 26 years and 2 days old).
All growth happens in increments!
And in that spirit, I realized that if I wanted writing to be a bigger part of my life, the solution was simple - I need to spend more time writing. This is the inspiration for etude.
What? Think of etude as a revolving invitation to flex the undernourished, creative, philosophical corner of your mind. Each month, a new topic will be chosen. I will publish a series of my own essays or other writings which stem from, relate to, or perhaps tangentially caress the topic. I will also solicit the wonderful minds from my circle of friends to submit their work as well. And lastly, I will accept reader submissions!
What am I looking for? Anything! Deep reflections, humorous musings, treatises, allegorical fiction, sonnets, free verse, and whatever else you've got as well. The intent of etude is to give us all the opportunity to cultivate in ourselves the thinking, reflective, artistic aspect in all of its manifestations.
Hit me with your best shot.
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