Two queer artists have a magical meet-cute at the flea market of their dreams.
It is difficult to say when and how often things happen in dreams. Recollection blurs, time stretches out into the middle distance, and baseless fantasies present themselves as déjà vu. In these respects, deep slumber has some things in common with killing time on the job, and thus, it is should come as no surprise that there are jobs in dreams.
Rareflight worked one such job. A few nights a week (and during some short naps in between), she manifested an abstract form at the market and sold art, her art, her strange illusions rendered in a thousand twinkling twilight tones, banned by mundane circumstance yet stubbornly on sale for low, low prices that would hopefully add up to this month's rent.1
There was a cycle to it. Customers moved in waves, flowing through the aisles and crashing upon tables like surf on the shore. Sometimes, these were flesh-and-blood visitors from the physical world; more often, they were dream-avatars, scattered minds drawn in by the siren song of oneiric advertising. Their shapes rose from the foam and grasped around in search of something lost, something loved, an echo of days past, then — finding nothing — melted away in the tide.
At least, most did. Tonight, one shade lingered nearby. A purple-yellow seafoam silhouette poring over muddled memories of music. Looking more closely, Rareflight saw that they were pinned in place at their fingertips, which were just barely in contact with a white audiocassette. Their half-face bubbled with guilt, their arm trembled, yet they could not break away and from that tension something else emerged. Another silhouette, a smaller self, which clambered up the visitor's back and hissed nonsense in their ear-
-USEITBUYITFUSEITBUYIT-
— like a record stuck in a groove.
Rareflight had seen this before. Interobjectification would be very unpleasant for all the parties involved, so she reached out and painted thoughts in the space between them.
It's okay. It's just a dream.
The visitor twitched, shocked out of their reverie. Really? they asked. Whose dream?
Then they disappeared in a puff of self-awareness.
After that, it was days
or weeks
or perhaps only hours
before she thought about them again.
It would be too much to say that art came naturally to Tanya Miller. Yes, she had a passion for it, and yes, she had an intuitive grasp of her gifts, but that did not make them effortless; there was quite a bit of practice involved. The same could be said of her makeup routine. She hadn't grown up with lipstick, or eye shadow, or any cosmetics at all for that matter — instead, she had taught herself one clumsy stroke at a time. Contouring her jawline got easier. Highlights brought forth definition. And so, when she finally went out and roamed the city, clad in earth-tones, hair picked high, the face she wore was distinctly Hers.
Tanya went uptown. Then downtown. Then she circled back around, drinking in the sights and sounds. She was half-aware of the fact that she was circling the lip of a psychic depression, tracing whorls in the mass unconsciousness, but didn't truly recognize the neighborhood until she came to a halt in front of the old antique mall. She had worked there, too, on a single misty summer, whiling away long hours between the tall tall shelves. They shut their doors but vendors moved in anyway, filled that dead space with trinkets and tables and gave her a glimpse of things beyond. Now they were back in town — and Tanya was not the only visitor.
Standing there on the sidewalk was a pear-shaped, scruffy-haired burnout of indeterminate gender. They tapped one combat boot against the pavement and peered perplexedly at the building, probably pondering the significance of spotting something in slumber before seeing it by sunlight. They saw her approaching, gave her an appreciative once-over, looked back at the entrance, then did a full-body double-take.
Holy shit, they exclaimed. It's you! You're the paint lady. You were in my dream.
You recognize me? This was a surprise. Tanya's avatar was an abstract collage of shapes and swirling colors. Hardly humanoid at all. That look was Hers, too, but it was not the face she was wearing right this minute.
Well, yeah. I mean… They fumbled with their words for a moment, then seized on an explanation: It's your eye shadow! Same colour, same triangle shape as your head. Like, your shape in the dream. That's cool.
Thank you. She stood there for a beat, then said, I'm Tanya. Rareflight's signature bloomed overhead in deep plum petals, the same shade as her lipstick.
Wren Masterson. Their gaze flickered to the floating word and back again. Fellow weirdos call me steakshift.
Pigments popped and fizzled out. Are you a dreamer too?
Uh, no. At least, I don't think so. Who knows what they are all the time, right? They laughed unconvincingly, then cleared their throat. I'm into analog media. Cassettes, film, hard drives. Other stuff.
Those sound like very different things, she said matter-of-factly.
Not to me. Their smile was crooked but earnest. Data is data, IMO. How about you? What's your story?
I'm an artist! she declared, puffing up with pride. I paint commissions on both sides of the Veil. But I mostly sell anart in there.
Rad. What is this place, anyway?
This is the
Located:
Here (For Now)
Official Languages:
Cash, Barter, Nostalgia
Ethnic Groups (Summer 2017):
0.3% Noncon
20% Free Consciousness
31% Corporeal
48% Transitory
Government:
Oligarchy (former), Small Business Association (current)
Reality:
Liminal
Psychology:
Extroverted
Immigration Status:
Please Do
Emigration Status:
Come Again!
The Aftermarket is an itinerant dream-space with porous links to the physical realm. Unlike most collectives, this micro-territory can be visited in both dream and material form.
First conceptualized in 196X as the Oneiroi Incorporated Aftermarket Research Group, the project connected with the collective consciousness of the common consumer to conduct research and analysis. With the collapse of Prometheus Labs in 1998, Oneiroi Incorporated severed ties with the Aftermarket to cut costs. In the absence of corporate leadership, the Aftermarketeers became independent. They continue business to this day.
The Aftermarket's internal space varies. It is often perceived as being slightly too small and/or large for its current enclosure. For ease of navigation, a conspicuous banner is always posted above the front entrance.
…noncon?
Meaning non-consensual.
I know what it means, it's just… worrying… that it's above zero.
That point-three is Ida. She runs the place. Or is the place? Either way, it's her dream, so she can't leave, no matter where she goes.
Places dream?
Oh, yeah. Tanya traced a line of mortar with her fingertips, then pressed her palm to the rough red brick. Places dream way deeper than people. It makes sense, if you think about it. They've got so much history.
Huh. Cool. Anything I should know about before going in there? Is it dangerous?
Yep. It took her a second to realize that wasn't very helpful. Well, some of the vendors are a little much, but most are okay. Just don't buy any food. Or drinks. Definitely no drugs.
Alright.
And don't tease the sphinx.
The sph- wow. Okay. Masterson scratched their chin. Weird how I still want to go in.
That's the Oneiroi ad-tech messing with you. Full disclosure: whatever you were looking for in that dream, you won't find it here.
Their face fell. Bummer.
In that moment, as Wren teetered on the precipice of walking away, Tanya made a snap decision. There's a lot to see in there, she said. I could show you around? Maybe introduce you to some people?
Then she batted her eyelashes. Once. Twice. Her stomach fluttered back.
And… there! Below brown eyes, on stubbled cheeks, there glowed a brighter hue, like cotton candy in the sun. The hint of a smile, or something more — a moment shared and recognized.
That sounds great, Wren said. Lead the way!
Anyone who has ever set foot in a flea market, thrift shop, antique mall, artist's alley, garage sale, or mid-sized convention can conjure up an approximate mental image of the Aftermarket. If you've seen one, as they say, you've seen them all.
Tanya knew this place, its many iterations, but it had been years since she walked these aisles in the physical realm and she'd forgotten what it felt like. The ambience was different. Noisy and novel. Each table in the maze hummed with potential, an array of undiscovered hand-me-downs begging to be taken home. Infinite possibilities in a small space. Alluring, to most customers. Still an unwelcome reminder that she stood six-foot-two.
Wren whistled. Seems busy.
For a seller? No. Tanya had seen the hellish rush of the collective consumer consciousness during Thanksgiving, Halloween and Christmas. If normal business came in waves, then tabling during the holidays was like shooting whitewater rapids. But for a visitor? Yeah, she conceded. It is.
So. They rubbed their hands together. How's this work?
Well, most vendors have a specialization. Or at least a theme.
Nice. Love me a good gimmick.
Then you're in the right place. For some people here, the bit is more important than making sense. Or selling stuff that works.
Ha! That's just thrifting in action. Can't tell you how many times I've bought something totally busted and fixed it up.
Oh yeah? How about something that doesn't work in our reality?
That's… tougher. They looked around, scanning silhouettes. Not everyone is local, then?
Nope. It's mostly out-of-towners, actually. Deep dreamers. Astral projectors. Some folks from odd timelines. She waved at a tall man standing nearby. Hey, Thad!
The man winked and waved at her. A line of watches rattled up and down his arm. Have fun! he said.
How about you? Tanya asked. Live around here?
No, I'm just passing through. Came to town on a delivery run. Got sidetracked.
Thad's voice pursued from the middle distance: You'll have to deal with it sometime!
Wren cast him a sidelong glance. Is your buddy okay?
I think so. Living backwards seems normal for him.
Don't go away mad, now!
Your memory does not deceive you —
everyone else is WRONG!
PROVE IT with a VHS copy of Sinbad's Shazaam! Bring back the bona fide Berenstein Bears! Complete your Fruit of the Loom Cornucopia Collection! Enjoy Peter Gabriel's 1986 single RED CHINA! It's all here at MANDALA FX!*
* While supplies last.
This one has gotta be a bit. Right? Can I ask that, or is it breaking kayfabe?
Wow, Red China! Tanya grabbed the CD and waved it around with exaggerated verve. I've been looking for this for years! It's not on Spütify.
You're fucking with me.
She smiled innocently. Maybe!
You know what? I don't even care. I just want to hear this remix crime.
Martin C!
@mrchubblewitz
G'day there mates. You like Garfield? I like Garfield. I got old Garfield, new Garfield, fake Garfield, post-Garfield, portraits of Andrew Garfield, pellets of James Garfield, some lovely jellyfish and lavender candles. Ain't it grand?
- SHAPES 18,05,07
- FORMS 15,58,21
6:93 DT - 5 June 2017
Hey, this isn't fake Garfield. It's a normal Heathcliff book.
How can you tell?
Touché.
THE MUSICAL CHAIR PRESENTS:
- Fresh earworms
- Commercial jingle bells
- Amen brake pads
- Orange tins of canned heat
- A brown note wrapped in butcher paper
My God. We've finally found it. Masterson hefted the waxy brown package with one hand and gazed at it with faux reverence. Actual shit music! No, but for real, I'm buying this.
Ew. Why?
Could be useful. For, like… deterrence. They counted out bills and gave them to the chair, who pushed itself under the table and sat back, satisfied. I get hassled sometimes. Out in public. You know how it is.
I do. She did. So… you're saying if they don't start shit…
Won't be shit. Exactly.
d/DoctorLunaLudenberg - PWS Robot Mill - Trans Pride, World Wide!
Did you know that the modern word villain comes from the Old French vilain, meaning peasant? It's true! For hundreds of years, we've been cheering against our fellow proles. Kings have always called us outlaws, folx! So LIVE FREE! Band TOGETHR! Join our VILAINNOUS REVOLT! DO GAY and BE CRIME YOU BEAUTIFUL REBELS!!
edited: oh heck i forgot supposed to sell here <:3 sry
edit2: BULLETPROOF GLOVSE >:D
Upvote Reply ·+12 · Jun 5, 2017 7:89 PM
Come to think of it — do you have a lot of trouble with janitors? Er, MIBs?
Not really. The Foundation sends people sometimes, but they're pretty easy to spot.
Oh, I know a trick for that! Wren exclaimed. Look down. Most cops wear boring shoes with safety toes, even when they're undercover. It's in the dress code or something.
Mm. Maybe. I mostly look for dreamers craving power and control. They wear authority like… treated leather, I guess. Vain veneers venerating violence.
You've got a way with words.
She blushed. Thank you. Truth be told, in that moment, Tanya hadn't actually realized she was speaking aloud. The stress of roaming the physical world was finally getting to her, and the relentless burble of ad-tech was not helping.
Tired of being tall and broad and overstimulated, she closed her eyes and stepped down into the first shoals of slumber. With her mental adblock on, the buzz of background noise receded, distant colors blended together, and Rareflight's smaller, stranger silhouette felt more at home.
You alright? Wren peered at her with concern. You look a little, uh, sleepy.
I'll be fine. Rareflight glided forth and her body trailed behind. I do this a lot.
They gave her a respectful nod and turned back to the tables. The moment persisted. With the renewed clarity of dream-logic, Rareflight realized something had slipped by her. Whenever she shared eye contact with steakshift — regardless of her avatar's height — they were face-to-face. How unusual.
She studied them again. More closely this time, through an artist's lens. Guitar curves jacketed in denim, festooned with jangling pins; muddy irises framed between crosshatched stubble and a waterfall of curls. What else? She couldn't quite say. Their background was indistinct, pulsing, electronic. Every so often, it would jitter and roll and Masterson would roll with it, bouncing on their heels, bounding between invisible lines. There was deliberate effort in the way they walked and talked. Constant performance. It was… impressive.
Hi there! It looks like you're on the hunt for movie memorabilia! Can I help? Cartoon clapperboard Kino Fabuloso bobbed in the air, eyes jiggling, hinged jaw snapping with each syllable. The titanic Art Brute stood off to one side, leafing through a fashion magazine.
I'm good browsing, thanks.
Same, Rareflight said. She was already paging through lookbooks from a dozen different worlds.
Are you sure? I've got a fake Scorsese! Aged to perfection! Well, almost. Flip it in a few years. You'll make a killing.
Pass. What's this? Double-8 stock?
That's 7mm film! For your 7mm camera!
Uh-huh. How much?
Fifty buckaroos!
Eh… no. Masterson scanned the table again and grimaced. Wow. Now that is in poor taste.
They were staring down at a DVD box set. All 23 episodes of The Critic, on three discs — except instead of a pudgy cartoon man, the cardboard cover bore a sneering, Warhol-esque figure with a droopy cigarette between his fingertips. His humorless edict: IT STINKS.
You're really selling this? Dark clouds boiled out of Masterson's mind, rising and clotting into thunderheads. C'mon, dude. Guy ran an art cult.
That's not mine! the board clapped back. It's-
Mine. Art Brute's voice sang out high and nasal, like a sardonic violin. He returned the magazine to its neat little pile and crossed thick arms over his barrel chest. This is my half of the table. Moreover: this is a parody. Obviously. It's meant to puncture his mystique.
Man's about as mystical as Jeffrey Dahmer. Besides — when'd this come out? Wren flipped the box and laughed bitterly. 2004! While the real Critic was active! Great. Fantastic.
Art rolled his eyes. Well, I am so sorry their satire was too prescient for you. Would you prefer the artist dawdled until after the Friday Exhibition?
The what?
The Friday Exhibition. 2013. That's when The Critic died.2
What? No. The Critic died, like… nine years ago.3
Actually, Rareflight interjected, you're both right. Those were different guys, from different cells.
Wren's head whipped around. Mental mist broke and dissipated. Different cells?
Mmhm. Are We Cool Yet? isn't one big group. It's got chapters in local scenes. Each one's got a Critic, and they probably talk, but I don't think there's one guy out there pulling all the strings.
How do you know that?
I'm an artist, she repeated, a bit more firmly this time. Can't get better at anart if I don't understand it, right? So I read theory. And history. And AWCY? is right in the middle of both. Luisa Bellocchio's Anart Manifesto is like… the Rosetta Stone for a half-century of anomalous counterculture. Have you read that?
I, uh…
You should read that. And watch Ruiz Duchamp's Cooler Manifesto. Educate yourself a bit. Rareflight shifted her attention to the Brute. I'll take this issue of VAGUE. List price?
For you, madam? Half off.
She reached into her arm, daubed her fingertips with color, and lashed out a liquid caricature. When a half-body portrait emerged from the maelstrom, she handed it over, took her prize and moved on, head held high.
To their credit, Masterson took some time to think things through before speaking again. I'm sorry about that, they ventured. Got a little heated. My friends, we, uh… we've had some bad blood with AWCY? Recently, even.
Mm.
It's complicated.
Most things are.
Still. Didn't mean to make it your problem. Uncalled for. Apologies.
Mmhm. Thank you. Rareflight drifted, contemplating, buoyed on eddies of idle curiosity. Who are your friends? Some other art collective?
Uh, kinda. We call ourselves Gamers Against Weed.
Huh. She thought about that for a moment. Then she laughed. Once. A short, airy Ha! that caught Wren off-guard, tickled their ribs and left them cackling. I think I've heard of you.
Really? You mean through anart circles? Or politics? We made some noise last year.
Someone here sells stickers with your logo.
…we have a logo?
Sure. I'll show you. Just let me find him. Rareflight kicked off from nothing and rocketed up into the rafters. She turned in midair and the market turned with her, languid labyrinth contorting in kaleidoscopic curlicues.
Hold up a sec. Masterson's attention had been captured by a pile of beige boxes. These are actual computers! they exclaimed. Not just dream machines. This is an OG Macintosh… a Commodore 64… and they're all in good shape. Where'd you get these?
Hm? A middle-aged woman with piercings and horn implants leaned forward into the aisle. Who's asking?
Uh, me. steakshift. Sup. They reached out for a handshake.
Wait! Rareflight plunged back down from her vantage point and took up the strings of her mortal form. Remember what I said about-
The second-generation American sphinx raised one grey forepaw from beneath the table. She put an unlit cigarette to her lips, turned her palm up, and extended five razor-sharp claws. The cigarette ignited on its own. Nostrils flared. Twin gouts of smoke billowed out.
Slowly, ever-so-slowly, Wren closed their hand and offered up a fist bump, instead.
The cougar4 chuckled. A light, playful tap, and the tension was broken. Nice to meet you, steakshift. I'm Akila, daughter of Tutu, favored of Neith.
Pleasure. Should I use your full title, or-
Akila is fine. As for the hardware, I dunno where it came from. It's only mine by technicality. I have a storage yard out in the Catskills, and some folks never come back for their stuff.
How about the shirts? They plucked a faded tee out of a cardboard box, poked their fingers through two ragged holes, and wiggled them around questioningly.
Mostly trespassers. Her smile was wicked, wide, and razor-sharp. Mostly.
Sick. Do you have, like, a business card? I've got a bunch of sensitive shit that needs to go someplace safe.
Sure! Tell me a joke first.
Huh? Wren glanced from Akila to Rareflight and back again. Is that how it works?
It is today! the sphinx chirped. Price of admission.
No teasing, Rareflight murmured.
Okay. Alright. These two Oscar Meyer guys — no, too obvious. They bit their lip. Tapped their foot. Snapped their fingers. Got it. Why can't bicycles stand up?
Dunno. Why?
They are two-tired.
Akila guffawed. Good! Cheesy. C'mere, lean in. I won't bite.
steakshift hesitated — bowed forward, listened to her whisper — then jumped back, wrinkling their nose. Jesus, that's spicy! they wheezed. How can an address be spicy?!
Memes are just spicy riddles. Akila took another drag on her cigarette and yawned. Anything else?
Ugh. Um. No. Sorry. That breadbox looks great, but it's out of my price range. Catch you later, maybe?
Whatever. The sphinx rolled onto her side and out of sight.
Wren exhaled slowly. Then they tiptoed away as quietly as possible. Well! they declared, once safely out of earshot. She seems nice.
Nice and scary. Rareflight rolled a bon mot on her tongue, savored the taste, and bit down. So do you think she's a cat person?
They choked. Jesus! What happened to No teasing, huh?
Might I interest you in a fine timepiece?
steakshift paused mid-stride. Hey, wait a minute. Thad, right? Weren't you standing near the entrance earlier? Saying spooky shit?
He still is, Rareflight observed. We're more or less back where we started. Except for that guy. She pointed to a gangly gentleman made significantly taller by vertical pinstripes and a stovepipe hat. He's the one with the stickers. George Oliver Ingrid. You know him?
They squinted across the aisle. Uh… no. I mean, I don't think so.
Right on cue, Mr. Ingrid gasped. He waved both noodly arms (clothed in different colors, all of a sudden) and squealed, Sir! Oh, sir! You're finally here!
Okay, I definitely don't know you. If we'd met, you'd know I'm not a sir. Or a ma'am.
A thousand apologies, friend! G.O.I. brushed some imaginary lint off his jacket and swept a spindly hand over his wares: off-brand action figures, plush animals, stickers and memorabilia. Please! Please, take a look! Your endorsement would be most appreciated.
Wren sighed. Look, man… you've got me confused with someone else. I'm not the toy guy.
Toy guy? Rareflight echoed.
Yeah, funny story. My normie handle is MxMasters, right? Because Mx. Masterson. Well, turns out I should've checked beforehand, cuz there's a MxMaster out there, and he does magic with toys!
Whoops.
Right? Go figure. We've got our wires crossed a couple of… times… They trailed off, eyes locked on one peculiar article. What is this?
This? Ingrid picked up the faceless figurine and read the label on its base. Why, this is Number 35! Mr. Finale. Is it yours?
No! Hell no! I don't want anything to do with that. That's- no. Sickly smog seeped from steakshift's shadow, borne on ill winds. God, look at all this shit. You think this is funny?
Mr. Ingrid looked at them, looked down at his wares, and back again, visibly confused. Isn't it?
They sputtered wordlessly, gesticulated meaninglessly — then sagged, defeated, steeped in noxious funk. You know what? No. Not flipping out. Not twice in one day.
Hold on-
Sorry, Rareflight. I just — I didn't mean to — sorry. They turned away and trudged towards the exit, head down, trailing wisps of negativity.
A few tables away, Thad straightened up. He looked right at her, waved, and said, Hello!
Rareflight stared back, nonplussed. Mind spinning clockwise, a brush in clear water. She thought about what the man had said, assembling phrases in her head, then read them in reverse, instead.
Wait! George waved vinyl wedges in the air. You forgot your complimentary stickers!
She snatched them from his grasp and sailed off without another word.
Tanya caught up with Wren outside the building, around the corner, where they squatted next to a battered bicycle. They checked the brakes, tires and chain, the brakes, tires, and chain, over and over, not looking for problems so much as meditating on a reliable system.
What was that about? she asked.
Huh? Nothing. Nothing important. Wren dusted off their hands and stood up. Thanks for showing me around. That was fun. Er, mostly. Anything I can do to return the favour?
An explanation would be great.
For a moment, it seemed they might try to evade or deny. Then they saw the firm, unyielding resolve in her expression. Masterson sighed. Alright. Fair. You know Dr. Wondertainment, right? His whole Misters shtick?
Tanya cocked an eyebrow.
Right. Sorry. Well. He's got some fans in GAW. And this one chucklefuck, this asshole… he went all-in on making our own Misters. Absolutely would not shut up about it. He worked out this whole technique for like… soul condensification, or something, and then — get this — when he got diagnosed, he used it on himself! Yeah! Mr. Ominous. Turned halfway into graffiti. Natural causes did the rest.
That sounds… sort of impressive, though. I mean, if it was his dying wish, that's an artist giving everything to art.
Maybe. I guess. Except it wasn't just him! No, no. People started scooping out ghosts like soft-serve, putting bits in new bodies. For gags! That's dark. Real dark. Of course it went bad. Wren sighed heavily, leaned against the wall and looked up at the dimming sky. I should've seen it coming. Should've said something. But I didn't. It was all so… fucking avoidable.
Tanya picked out a background detail and brought it to the fore: This has something to do with that bad blood you mentioned earlier.
Damn, you don't miss a thing. Yeah. Somebody made a Mister of their own recently. Turned out to be AWCY? pulling some, We're not so different, you and I! bullshit. Sending a message after, like, a decade of radio silence. Masterson paused. You've read about them. Is it normal for Dali types hold grudges like that? Long-term?
Well… Bellocchio did say that the best art comes from revenge.
Super.
But I think that's supposed to be a big-picture, fuck-the-Man type thing, you know? Revenge on the institutions. Surviving when they want us dead, so we can all paint a more beautiful world together. No closets, no cliques. That's what Cool means to me.
Mm. I could get behind that.
Seems like you already have. She offered up George's stickers: three copies of Sic Semper Cannabis, inked in garish grape, awful orange and weedy green. There's something in it, right? Gotta be, if you stick with them.
You know what? That crooked grin spread across their face once more. You're absolutely right. I bitch sometimes, cuz there are low lows, but god damn GAW's got some high highs. They're troublemakers. Misfits. Found family. Good people! Yadda yadda.
I know that feeling. She looked up at the antique mall one last time. The Aftermarket would be gone by daybreak. Perhaps it would not return; this particular building was old, decrepit, overdue for demolition. Poor thing. What are you going to do now?
Now? Uh, same as before, probably. Try to be better.
Cute. No, I mean tonight. Do you have someplace to stay?
Here in town? Nah. I was just gonna keep rolling. There was a note of uncertainty in their voice. Like Wren didn't actually have a destination in mind.
Tanya weighed her options against her odds and found them favorable. You know what? she said. I've got a pullout couch. You can crash at my place.
Are you sure? I don't want to impose-
It's no trouble! But… fair warning… people sleeping near me tend to have weird dreams.
Masterson thought about it, then shrugged. Par for the course. Reality's pretty weird as-is.
Rareflight wafted down, down, down through a tunnel of the mind, drifting ever deeper into unconscious understanding. She had crossed that secret border between shadow and substance, facts and fictions, where past and present spun into the abstract realm of imagination. Oily stones gradually gave way to cold concrete, an empty frame, a door left unlocked — unwitting invitations into an unfamiliar space.
This was a faded facsimile of a basement studio. The room was lined with shelves on either side, packed with misshapen bits and bobs, half-formed tools, shining fixtures and metamaterials, all earmarked for eccentric exhibitions.
There was an egg at the foot of the stairs. She was draped in a curtain of long black hair, and every so often, she drank from a bottle of brown sauce. On the far side of the room, a giant eyeball twitched on a nail. Reflected in its pupil, David Byrne danced like an Egyptian, over and over, in an endless loop: same, same, same, see how it never was.
I take it that The Critic didn't like your proposal.
Goose-pimples rose on Rareflight's surface. She spun in the air and saw no one — just a dark haze of negative space, descending step by heavy step. Wood creaked, the scent of paint thinner stabbed at the air and she recoiled instinctively, darting weightless into the nearest corner to watch and wonder.
He hated it, the egg replied. Her voice was low. Toneless.
A deep rumble of laughter. Of course he did. What is a television apparatus to man, who need only shut his eyes to see the seen and never-seen?5
I don't know what that means, old man.
It means you've got no perspective. I've worked on projects with more history than your entire country. This? This is derivative.
No, it's not! It-
It's not a ripoff? What, you think I don't know Talking Heads? This is Three Ports. Everyone knows Talking Heads.
It's not just a reference! she snapped. It's a sensory experience. I'm making a point!
About what? Society? Religion? Consumerism? What?
No, it's about life on autopilot. Watching things speed by. David said-
David said, David said! the voice echoed in falsetto, shrill and scornful. Face it: this is nothing. It's bootleg merchandise. It's a tacky cover band. It's just an appeal to nostalgia, and nostalgia is for children who can't live in the moment. Like you.
Fuck off! The egg staggered up and the bottle clattered to the floor, leaking a single oversized drop. I am not a child. I am a- an- anartist! I am The Developer, and I am working on my art! She pointed at the twitching eyeball and its leering lens. You fucks can't just… invite me in, then shit all over me! She lurched around, unsteady on her feet. You just don't understand. Nobody understands. What's the point of making art when the audience doesn't get it?
Look around. The shadow spread his hands. I don't see an audience in here. Just you. Wallowing. Besides… you're not really in it for the art. We both know why you're desperate for The Critic's approval. Don't we, Anna?
No reply.
Ah, well. Perhaps you'll come to your senses and consider The Critic's advice. Otherwise… He shrugged dismissively. Good luck making it on your own.
Dire messages delivered, the shade retreated up the staircase and receded into nothing. Lights flickered. The egg remained. She simmered in her briny tears. Desperation sealed her throat. Slow-boil loneliness would harden her heart or kill her completely, forcing her ever inwards, collapsing, an implosion in darkness, unremembered —
Enough! The spell was broken. Freed from its grasp, Rareflight surged up and outward, bathing the dreary scene in primer. She wiped the canvas clean, scrubbed it dry, and penciled in the barest outlines of a structure. The sleeper's chariot formed on its own, wireframe mattress heaving, and the room filled in hues of orange and blue.
She drew a long crack in the eggshell and steakshift spilled out, but they did not fall. They shivered in the air above the mattress, slick with sweat, tattoo spinning circuits. Flickering, jerking, suspended in pitiless nothingness.
Rareflight reached out
and made
contact.
| Abstract Empress | King Bird |
| raised in silence | spirit broken |
| resolve vibrant | flies anew; |
| self-taught | hard-won |
| twisted knots | forged in fire |
| grown tall | sculpted down |
| cascade, collage | signal to noise |
| forms in starlight | phosphor-dots |
| glimmering | echoes |
| colors melding | mixed and matched |
| brilliant shapes | fat figure-eights |
| break the mold | don't flinch from sight |
| hide no more | judgment deferred |
| desert dunes | cold spring mists |
meet
and rise
and fall
in sync
together.
When Tanya emerged from her bedroom, hair mussed, robe askew, Wren greeted her with a lopsided omelette. I raided your kitchen, they said. Hope that's okay.
Yeah. Yeah, that's great, actually. She pulled up a seat at the table. Carved off a slice. Yawned.
Would've made coffee too, but-
I don't have any. Hate coffee. Grab me some juice?
Sure thing. Wren busied themselves once more, bending over to rifle through the fridge and standing on their toes to retrieve glasses from the cupboard. Tanya admired the view.
Here you go. They sat, took a sip from their own glass, caught her gaze and laughed. What? What is it?
You're handsome. Has anyone ever told you that?
Masterson blushed scarlet. I… Wow. No, actually! That's a new one. A sly smile. Someone's definitely called you beautiful.
Oh, once or twice.
How about gorgeous? Captivating? They dropped their voice to a stage whisper. Magical?
Both of them cracked up. Half-clothed, unkempt, unmasked and perfectly at ease, basking comfortably in silent shafts of summer light. Rareflight couldn't think of a more perfect scene.
steakshift cleared their throat. So, uh… I gotta ask…
Mmhm?
Did we sleep together last night?
Dreamed together. Yes.
Okay. I thought so. They grappled with their words. Sharing that with you… it felt really special. Peaceful. Like we had something together.
Yeah, she said dreamily. I think so too.
But the first half — the nightmare — that's fuzzy. How about you? Remember anything?
Some. She sipped her orange juice. Want to talk about it?
Wren blanched. Nope! No. That wasn't how… no. Sorry.
That's okay. Maybe next time.
Maybe. Two full seconds passed before the significance of her words sank in. Wait. There's gonna be a next time?
Tanya smiled. The whole room glowed. Let's find out.