Waves.
Sometimes things propagate as waves.
She found this moth(rat?)-eaten manual fromma time not ours that mentioned this. That was before the invaders came. It may as well be centuries ago. There were stores that sold candies then. Wrapped in cellophanes of every color of the rainbow. What I'd give for something sweet now...
The sky is grey. Its always a shade of grey now. Sometimes lighter, during the day, I guess, orran ashen smeared easel offan irrational pantheon of uncaring gods and goddesses. We've been walking in what we assume is the same direction for at least two weeks. Following the river, keeping it to our left. At least we know we're not walking in circles. There's always an unnatural sound, like a sweeping broom across the tiled entranceway to Hell, that is present over the rushing water. Maybe that's why we stay close to the flowing - it almost blocks out the new world we have found ourselves in. Some semblance offa documentary on nature we might have seen when young and entertainment and learning were possibilities. There aren't many animals anymore. The ones that catch our peripherals are as ashen as the sky. Funny. I don't recall seeing foxes before; not in person. How long have we really been picking our way along this rocky terrain?
Laura is ahead of me, carrying a long bamboo walking stick. Sometimes when I lie and smile I tell her that's sposta help one walk. She lies and smiles back that of course its helping her walk - if I keep it horizontal it functions assif I'm onna tightrope - look, I'm inching between downtown skyscrapers!
An explosion in the distance, probably building sized. Sounds don't travel as far as they used to. All the greyness that came with Them is heavy, a wet blanket on the Earth, makes breathing a chore if one pays attention. The last buildings we saw were three-quarters immersed in the river. What is this body of water called? How does one forget what the local river is named? The same way one forgets what one's first car was, or where one's first kiss took place. Drive-in? Couch? Under bleachers? The explosion must be far enough to not be an immediate concern. No underfoot rumblings. We barely look up, in fact. We decided that attempting to track our progress in terms of direction was boring and pointless. Its not assif there issa goal we're reaching, a dot onna map that hassa printed name next tooit. In fact, the farther away we stay from those former dots on maps the better. Out here in the Great Big Fucking State Park of Wherever The Fuck We Are its peaceful enough. No former right angles to remind us that there are no straight lines in nature. Can't remember the last time I waited forra red light.
I'm catching up to Laura, she's crouching, long stick still horizontal, picking at something on or in the ground with her sawtoothed machete. There's no movement in the treeline except the branches and leaves themselves. Birds are almost non-existent now. I swear I don't ever recall seeing a fox in the flesh before, now they're the most common animal besides us. As I reach the limestone platform she spins, triumphant, see-I-told-you-the-stick-works, and holds out a bottle of Jamaican Red Stripe, looking new and shiny. Her excavation has unearthed a blue and white Igloo cooler chest from between boulders. Its full of formerly imported beers, a couple of red wax-encased wheels of cheese and luckily unopened large packets of bison jerky.
Back when people milled like ants, endlessly constructing ventilation tunnels and waste depositories, they believed things. They had up to the minute holy documents crisscrossed with squiggly imaginary lines, like all holy documents. Wherever one found oneself in relation to the imaginary lines denoted certain realities. Foxes are more common than people now. Somewhere Walt Disney is not feeling irony. Sometimes those holy imaginary lines were rivers. People's most common trait was laziness. I remember viewing a satellite picture of Earth, and it seemed the only blue water left was that being fed the indigo stain for denim inna polluted tributary adjacent in what was China. So much holiness. When the need arose for things bigger than us to assist, those holy worshipped things, they remained as invisible and ineffectual as ever. The larger than our imaginations entities that did show themselves remained indifferent to our collective sigils and crossed hearts. These giants brought with them a new Art, a new way to draw lines on maps, and new definitions of what maps were. Blue is still the least common color of water, brown and red being much more favored. Faces old and young stare accusingly from just beneath the surface tensions now, no matter what the hue of the liquid. The Earth is somehow a quieter marble now, explosions less frequent. If one were being charitable one could say the new, gigantic forms had brought peace, finally, at last. The answers to so many prayers.
Light pollution is now an antiquated term. Sagan's billions and billions twinkle sparkle flash and swoosh above our heads now if our relative elevation to the sea is great enough. I am no eidetic astrologer, but Laura agrees that Orion's belt and Betelgeuse are no longer where they were. Or maybe obscured by clarity. Perhaps eventually we'll draw new imaginary lines in the night grey and link humanistic tragedies to them. That one's Boffo, the legendary fox masturbator, see his right hand has six fingers? And there's Yourmom, still popular as ever. Some of the stellar regions make audible strings of intermittent noises, attempting to ask our obsolete fax machines tooa matinee. At least they're not selling us used cars yet. I wonder, would that make us scramble nowhere faster or drag our feet? The dead do not walk the globe. Hooded skeletons do not ride pale horses in search of wheat fields. It is possible something with many arms dances to an idiot piper. We smoke 'em if we got 'em, and we usually do. Drugs were big business, and are more commonly laying around than cans of cranberry sauce. They brought peace on Earth with Them, and an end to poverty, however one measures it. And they didn't even demand praise.
We haven't seen any other people in at least two weeks. Not alive, anyway. Most of the corpses are floating in pieces unidentifiable down past us. Any former homes by the waterfront have been abandoned. Proximity to the new vast creatures does something to the thought processes. Makes the electrons jump track and wind up in the wrong brain receptors. They're not eating us. They're not even interacting with humanity unless we en masse attack them. Nukes were used. That was the last Laura and I heard. The largest groups of people we've seen were four, across the river. They made no sign of recognition, no waves or yells. A mutual noticing. They were headed the way we came, on the other side.
We've stopped at a two story home with a boatless dock. A fire has turned the former garage into ash, but the adjacent kitchen and walk-in pantry is still full of groceries. Sandwich creme cookies with evaporated milk on the master bedroom deck. Sheets still smell like scented detergent and the water still gurgles from the faucets when they're turned. No electricity. Those electrons don't do the same things either. The long drive leading up to the structure is buried under massive fallen pines. Debris clogs the river itself, using a boat seemed useless, as if there was a destination to speed away to. Laura calls it " Fort mumbleblarrg " , exhaustedly burying her head in a couch cushion laid out on the deck. I stuff more cookies between my teeth. The view provided of the terrain from the deck looks like an angry child shook the ant farm, and bored, tossed it away inna drainage ditch outside a seafood buffet inna resort town. My skin imagines it has been coated in egg and floured batter several times. Shaking the sludge off my head I collapse on the unmade bed by the sliding glass, very seriously stained doors.
[ they severed the hands that's what the Spaniards did. Halberded piles palms up
fires not cauterizing, smudging
glints of spittled grin thick lenses calloused fingers zipping up weatherbeaten
blood, from not yet a teenager
cotton briars, green bitterness
whens
please not again]
Fort Mumbleblarrg seems as good as any place to experience intense hallucinations and/or time slips and/or simultaneous dimensional realities. It has cookies. After dragging all the usable foodstuffage up to the master bedroom suite atop the remnants of the wooded structure and making use of the handily, almost obscenely organized tools to actually um, fortify the narrow stairwell, we immediately crash near comatose for days, ingesting sugars and fats like there were supermarkets with humming freezer sections on every city intersection. This place even has a wine cellar, a real one, not a glass doored cabinet. I am almost disappointed there is no cask of Amontillado.
On the fourth day another explosion, still far enough to not feel blasted heat or earthquaking floorboards, but it trails along with it a visible atmospheric channel that spins off like the arm offa hurricane. For hours all the colors in the spectrum become grimy, unctuous, the view from the bottom of a fast food fryer overdue for straining. Nausea sets in during and afterward. All offa sudden being onna carpet is the same as lying face down inna two-inch-deep tray of cultivated maggots, complete with crawling movements up the walls and greenish-grey waves lighting up the flatscreen of the now-defunct television across from the bed. Huddled in the center, trying desperately not to touch or even look at the floor while convulsively emptying our bowels and stomachs, the moldering lightshow starts to produce three dimensional effects, coming closer then sinking in far past the wall its mounted on.
Blankness. Grey. Millipedes. Water still runs, still looks clear. All of the carpet gets torn out and heaved over the deck's railing, along with the sodden mattress. Mumbleblarrg wassa perfect title, man. From the deck a three-foot-wide stripe is clearly visible across the landscape. Straight from our perspective, disappearing into the horizon, a charred, still smoking narrow strip of burnt. Trees that formerly stood in its path are simply gone, not piles of twisted branch stubs and ash. Gouges in the limestone, an actual scraping it seems. Smell of overripe, rotting fruit, something exotic like ugli or dragon with an artificial sweetener aftertaste in the nostrils; acrid, bulbous decay accelerated by molecular science students proud of their work. Evidence of this is visible in the river itself - a darkened stripe underneath the waterflow which now eddies at the banks. Added to the evidence of former civilization already present in the water are the carcasses of fish, or fish-like creatures, at least. It is difficult to discern what the original shapes of the savagely torn chunks of flesh might have been. The entire column of moving water is black and brown and maroon and bright fire truck red. There issa small fire burning on the opposite shore. Impossible to tell what exactly, just a blur of burning. For the moment there is a wind, steady, away from us. Blessedly, away from us.
Laura usedta tell stories about being born onna side offa river I was not. I was born on an Air Force base in Texas. This is not that river. It doesn't look familiar to either of us. We don't know what its called, or was called. I had lived in Texas for all but four of forty-three years. I have never seen a fox except on screens, maybe a billboard. Now they're like neighborhood dogs. The trees, the grasses, they're familiar, but not intimately so. What are all these foxes eating? What stopped eating all the foxes and let their population burgeon? Laura says since that last wave she has a scar missing. It was to the side of a bone in her wrist, she got it while working inna field with her mother assa child. I don't remember for sure - its not my wrist, but I believe her. Neither of us can relate to the other how we got here, and when we attempt it again the story breaks down at maybe a different point. The last memory we have that stays the same is that we were both inna friend's car driving up to the convenience store a mile from my parents' old trailer. Then... Even when telling our own stories over again they change. At least that's what the other person claims.
There is plenty of packaged, indestructible food left. Some of the vintages are over sixty years old. We start on those just because. I stick a sewing needle through one of the corks and float it inna bowl of water. It doesn't seem to do anything in particular, which means I've probably forgotten a step in compass making. Best as I can tell we're headed vaguely north. Absolutely nothing I have observed points definitively to that conclusion. For now this is as good a place as any.
Contrary to most horror movie logic there are several battery powered devices fully charged, more or less, and picking up all kinds of stations. Allot of them are preprogrammed and safeguarded against any possibility that silence could happen, lest our listeners disappear. There are no live voices, though even the public station is replaying an interview with a United Nations ambassador intermittently with blocks of humming where the local station breaks would be. Neither of us recognize any of the station call letters or frequencies. Even the fifty thousand watt WOAI transmission is absent. Quickly we settle on the classical public broadcast, coming in surprisingly clear. It is the only one playing music without lyrics exclusively. It helps make all the alien noises more tolerable. When stars are visible focussing one's attention on a certain grouping will now cause them to actually respond - both with sounds and visual effects. Its not just our poor human senses - recordings on our phones document the phenomena in even greater detail. Clear enough skies to see past the grey are rare, but at least two infinite directions yield beautiful results. I name them after Greek sirens in my head, not wanting to be outwardly anymore pessimistic than the situation demands. Most stars are silent and stationary enough. For now. There is still one sun in the sky that seems to do the same thing it used to, even though its greyed out usually. Maybe tomorrow it will offer two scoops of raisins.
And. Aspirin in the aftermath of wine. We've been here four or five days and just now notice that there are no identifying traces at all of who once lived here. No photos framed. No mail magnetted to the refrigerator door. No kids' homework, or children's toys at all. There are true crime and mystery novels. No religious items. There are also no clothes hanging in closets or folded in drawers. Like we interrupted the crew dressing the set.
The audio stream changes from madrigals to Gregorian chants. Its still less memory invoking than pop songs of love gained and lost and sex. We've noshed through most of the sugars and salts and fats and have begun opening cans of vegetables and beans. Laura reminds me she's a Mormon and I pick up the old argument that no, she is not. My father attended a seminary in Michigan to become a priest before he joined the Air Force assa chaplin and married a paranoid schizophrenic, what the Roman Catholic church labels a possession case officially. I like to get drunk and talk about religion and politics. When I carried a wallet it contained separate business cards for ghost and demon removal services. My reasoning being that demons are way more dangerous than the cranky old fartbag of Aunt Mabel bitching about your choice of cat food for Mr. Snuggles, and should be priced accordingly. My first official girlfriend assa teenager working at Wendy's wassa Mornon, so I have slightly more than a cursory familiarity of the doctrine. Worst girlfriend ever, by the way. Never kiss a girl who doesn't smoke. Its okay if she doesn't smoke anymore, but this advice, I contend, will not let one down if heeded. As the topic of baptizing ancestors breaches again the sky visible past the open sliding glass door abruptly shifts from grey to palish green. Notta seafoam orra seasick orra pea, but a shade reserved for floors of state mental hospitals, disinfectant ready and climbing the edges of the walls. There is something else that is different. Laura and I exchange searching looks, interrupted in our comfort food conversation. We sit staring at each other forra solid minute before knitting our eyebrows and proceeding out on the deck. The atmosphere is physically thicker past the doorframe. Not more humid - the air is cool and moist, but no more so than before. Heavier. Gravity is still a theory. Although we confidently launch rockets and probes and parasail we assa species are still uncertain as to whether gravity issa push orra pull. Gravity now feels like its the ocean, waves jostling in all directions. A propagating wave packet, my head insists. I can't hear the rushing sound of the river. At all. Nor the wind visibly moving the branches strung above. The radio is unaffected. I am not. The last thing I remember when I awake is opening my mouth, partially full of cooked peppered yellow squash, and screaming. Silently.
[ thousand segmented legs crawling
the monsters took her under cover of sunlight and treason I can't remember what she was wearing
rough hewn metals jagged under nails into nerve-riddled flesh, rusted dirt filled channels
you were there to nurture but instead you consumed until bloated and gaseous
unstable at this temperature NO!
claimed divinity with hives and fever, royal pink and chartreuse
steaming exhalations horses breath
they spasmed fits and palsy
perspiration to the soil
which grew poisoned flowers from their tears
the limb twisted before the hinged joint borne unto the Firmament unmade
flutes whistling graveyard breezes
sounds are vibrations
sinusoidal dips and troughs and peaks and valleys
how many decimalled hurts?]
There issan aching in the back of my skull. No cartoon birds and stars halo. Rising from my face-up prone position on the freshly painted deck, Laura is first in my field of vision, back solidly pressed against the railing, her eyes wide and staring. Settling next to her while rubbing my nape, I dig in my pocket and fish out Ann's antique silver cigarette case. Taking two Camels out I offer one widdershins, quickly accepted. The black and gold lazer etched Zippo fails to click when struck but lights both. Baroque woodwinds and harpsichord is quarteting through the filthy sliding glass doors. It is the only sound. I dreamt of my daughter Kallisti. I have no idea where she is or if she is. Burnt ash drops without crackles, being shaken off by my trembling lips. Hot tears are streaming down, blurring the soundless vista with eloquent soundtrack. I haven't seen Kallisti since she was eight. She would be ten now. Her mother abandoned us when she was two anda half, chasing heroin and cocaine with prostitution and psychopathic apathy. I don't remember dropping the finished butt or crawling to the pallet on the floor underneath the speakers. Batteries still holding out. Harpsichord and oboes give way to four cellos, dirge. Its suiting of the moment. Red wine has not helped the aching of my head. Laura's face is turned from my view, surveying silent scenery fit forra hotel wall painting. This is where you could be instead of MotorLodge #164. There is no chocolate mint on your pillow. Do not use blacklights in the vicinity of your bedspread, please and thank you. End of song, end of consciousness.
Floor shakes hard enough to propel me to my feet. Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries is blasting through the speakers, but its too loud, absurdly loud, there's no way cones that size could make that much air move. Fuck this. Quick steps and noiseless slamming of the glass door. Thankfully the music diminishes in volume somewhat with this action. Its nighttime now. Laura is standing at the railing, one hand gripping the wood with enough force to turn her knuckles white, the other solidly around the ornate neck offa wine bottle labelled in Portuguese. She turns her head, frowning, only slightly, acknowledging my presence, then returns her sentry's position to the heavens. Half of the grey is parted centrally, revealing the new map of burning stars. Tens or thousands of minutes later Wagner dissolves into what would have been a station break, now the amplified buzzing offan ultraviolet bug zapper with two dragonflies struck frying in the mesh. This allows the only other sounds audible through to our senses: sirens calling from beyond Earth, skyward. A sort of synthetic chime set, microtuned at random and played by feasting vultures onna weighted keyboard. There is something new this time - a long, lilting, occasionally harmonized chorus of voices drifting in and out from a different point of night than the chimes, almost sideways from the horizon. If it is a language it is none I recognize, though there are definitely parts repeating verse-chorus-verse. Many vowels, few consonants. Hours pass. The buzzing from the radio fades to nothingness leaving us with the calling of the stars. The chimes span about two octaves. The voices, if that's what they are, full spectrum. There are most certainly repeating themes, though mismashed between competing chorales. All of the voices are distinctly female, the epitome offan archtype of warrior class. A third distinct group sounds angrier than the first two, threatening. No, bitch, our dance moves slay your tired, weak-ass trots. Its beautiful, as much as it can be, but my ears are accustomed to atonality. Also very directional. The voices are coming from horizontal sources, maybe on the planet, while the chimes are beaming from a gyrating cluster of suns directly above our heads. I find that I don't care how my dehydrated body feels about this decision: I am getting as drunk as I can before a red graped woman's hand closes the staring eyes of my corpse.
" There is nothing new under the sun " somebody said once. Probably a guy. That's the kind of smug bullshit men get quoted saying. Fuck that guy. I'm glad he's dead. I hope it hurt the whole time. By all means, quote me on that.
The darkness of night is lasting longer than it should. When I climb in the upstairs shower the water again thankfully runs clear. Its cold and wakes me up, though I'm still staggering drunk. Drinking in stomachfulls of water I emerge humming a companion piece to the concert around us. At least, I'm vibrating my throat and chest. It feels like what making sounds used to do. We've laid out couch cushions covering most of the deck and are observing. Writing onna legal pad witha pen screenprinted Al's plumbing, Laura says it feels like noon. We've been dosing off in turns. She suggests Father Alien instead of Mother Nature. Our three local groups of singers have played through at least two albums of repeating hits. I turned off the radio, though it didn't respond immediately, stubbornly buzzing at least an hour after the off command was issued. My vintage is 1973, something in French. Saltine crackers, spray cheese inna can. I keep thinking about Mitch Hedberg's joke about it glowing in the dark, every bite. The chimes have almost completely faded, along with the brightness and location of its point of emanation. Glee club is picking up the tempo, but seemingly content with their distant concert halls. When I heavily plop down the notepad is passed over. Two words: Foxes. Below. Laura is strategically stationed under the thick fringed vinyl umbrella that formerly stood in the center offa round glass table next tooa propane cookstove. On its side its functioning assa lean-to tent. Hanging my head over the railing, my eyes are greeted with twenty to thirty smaller shiny pairs staring back. Ashen grey and brownish-red foxes are doing much the same as we are, minus alcohol. Laura hands me a bag of marshmallows and we toss them down one by one. They look cute, smiling almost. I shiver. Laura tugs at my jacket and I join her on the other side of the lean-to. We stuff marshmallows in our ears, hoping we don't wake to find ants crawling, searching through our brains.
Something is tickling my face and smells like bubblegum. Opening my sleepshut eyes I discover an orange fox on my chest, staring directly at me. It licks my nose several times and is instantly gone when a peal of gravelly smoker's laughter erupts from beside me. Some giant, probably taloned hand has turned the volume knob of the world back to the right again. Trees, river, that sweeping, scratching noise, all back. I haven't seen Laura happy, even briefly, like this since we found ourselves wandering. The little furry scamp ate the marshmallows out of her ears too, she says. For minutes it is easier to breathe, even with the obligatory cigarette smoke. Happiness is rare now, has been for years. Just a little reminds my body what its like to be alive. Lighter grey, occluded sky. Something like morning has arrived, however late. The same clawed huge fingers changed the world's gear ratio back to where it was. We're spinning...I see a flash of memory instead of what my eyes report. My autistic daughter spinning herself dizzy holding a ribbon, a glittery one, inches thick, sparkles fluttering. Quickly I pretend to cough and turn away, holding my closed fist in front of my face. There is no need to spoil whatever semblance of humanity is left in us by sharing this thought. " I'll make breakfast! Something hot! " She knocks the umbrella over leaping up like a clumsy feline. Burying my face in the rough cushions, I bite down on the material covering the foam, thankfull to be out of view.
Breakfast is handmade tortillas, generic, mechanically separated beef fromma squat can, diced tomatoes, black beans, corn. Blue rings of flames perform the chemistry on command. All the exciting little kid junk food has been torn through, leaving stacks of stolid, adult canned rations. There is plenty of wine. At first discovery I advised Laura not to quaff the ones that read " Port ". A friend's favorite author was Jack Kerouac. He mentioned more than thrice getting drunk on port wine. Turns out that's code for alcoholic cherry snow cone syrup. Which did provide me with the line " Man, I ain't shit my pants since I was twenty-seven! " For the record, my favorite author is HP Lovecraft. My takeaway was never, ever swim or float on, in, near, or near a painting of the ocean. Better include lakes to be sure. And iffit doesn't have fins reconsider your menu choice.
Considering the condition of the world around us we had immediately abandoned our lifelong commitment to living green and recycling. Throwing our refuse over the wooden railing wasn't an issue that required debate or reconsidering. Fort Mumbleblarrg, upon our commandeering, quickly became unfit to impress visiting colonels. Both of us passed out underneath the tilted umbrella, she under a thin blanket and I sporting a hideous shower curtain that was most certainly someone's stolen memento offa naughty liaison, the grey above us got brighter and dimmed. My eyebrows knitted upon being disturbed. Is today Wednesday? Forgot to set the cans out on the curb. Shitgoddamnmotherbitch the old couple two doors down are alcoholics. They're green container is full of-
Slowly raising my head and torso from the seat cushions I have the conscious thought that I really don't want to know what is making that waste management noise underneath my feet. I am tired of acquiring knowledge. My head is full, thank you. Try again next year. Mayhap by then I'll have finally succeeded in getting rid of those terrible '80s pop country lyrics that my parents thought would be useful to carry around with me for the rest of my life. Or that list of all the adverbs in the English language my frizzy-headed bitch offan AEGT teacher shoved in without permission. Then I'll have space for more data storage, but not now. Something is snorting and something is loudly crinkling. Maybe the social security office sent the wrinkly winos some of the CIA's cocaine stash covertly disguised as Sun Chips. They're humping furiously in the drainage ditch and feeling like teenagers again. That's sweet. Let 'em throw bottles and challenge life with a shaking skyward fist. She wassa cheerleader and he built an entire car from junkyard parts in Auto Shop. Their kid got dismembered five ways bya landmine, but that was at least six years ago. What-
Decking underneath vibrates as whatever is below us thuds against one of the support beams. A misty exhalation of partially digesting organic matter sprays into view on the other side of the railing. I still haven't sprung to my feet. Blood pressure hasn't come close to spiking. We all have our fetishes. Who am I to tell them what do after the evening news onna weekday? Can't believe you're poking me in the ribs to relate this story. Bullshit. You'll smile and wave when we drive by like always. A low, three second rumbling causes the deck to vibrate atta different wavelength. Fucking waves, man. No, I don't wanna go to the beach. They eat lots of cabbage and partake in excited conversations at mealtimes. They're passionate people. I am not getting out bed. That's what the largest sites on the internet are for. To see things like this whenever you wake up.
I. Am. Sleeping.
Go. Away.
Fuck. This.
Brown bears are smaller than black bears, which are in turn smaller than grizzlies. This one is grey. Its back sports the left arm and face offa human melted into it, off-center towards the animal's right flank. Impossible to tell if the face belongs tooa man or woman. Just the first two inches are showing, matted with the bear's greyed fur. The eyes are lidless and staring with tiny dots for pupils, pale brown eyes seeming to fade to grey with their surroundings. The left arm is active, flailing and grasping at anything that touches the palm momentarily. Mouth is slack, open, no tongue. I don't know how to judge how large the bear is. I think its bigger than a standard brown one, and I have no geographic clues. Fort Mumbleblarrg's newcomer is not okay with its tenants selfish policy of not sharing foodstuffs with the local wildlife, except insects. And its demanding toobe heard. I have been close tooa few brown bears before, seen pictures of the other ones, and I don't remember them having teeth this long and sharp. Jagged, like shark's teeth. At least they're not in rows. Huh. Whata strange thought.
An explosion, this one close enough to send flaming fist sized chunks of burning matter hailing down upon us and everything in sight. A searing blast of oven barrels directly sideways, transmuting the visible spectrum to the final day offa carnival, full of cheap plastic bottled whiskey, burnt sugar, understated menace, and malice overt. Both of us are thrown against the far railing. Almost losing consciousness, we scramble to toss several erupting couch cushions over the side before the rest of the upholstery ignites. The entire deck vibrates violently as the nightmare bear is thrown against the mooring posts, its jaws snapping several times like a shark's. A shriek far too reminiscent of human speech bellows from below. Laura is on her feet first, brandishing her sawtoothed machete but backing towards the sliding glass doors, one of which has cracked deeply but maintained its integrity. I follow her wide-eyed gaze to spy the offending creature coming into view as it woundedly staggers towards the riverbank. A two foot section of its rear flank is actively on fire, on the side opposite its unfortunate human addition. The human handed arm is flailing, fingers blurring. It becomes apparent that the unsettling sounds its making are also coming from the face enmeshed in the fur on its back. Unbelievably I find myself fascinated, unable to take in any other stimuli. Trailing an stench part burning hair and part Texas BBQ, it tumbles headfirst over a rocky ledge and is swept splashing fetid mudwater with the current. I lose my stomach contents over the railing, tannin-rich and sharply red. Behind me, a clang resounds as the machete hits now bare wood slats and a sound much more disheartening than any our mutant visitor had uttered bursts from Laura's lungs.
[ charred glass and copper, poly-fill and stuffed animals' eyes, once alive with children's imagination now splattered with phlegm and dirt
carousel uneven creaks flashing ticking bulbs in the humid summer air
the disappointment in her eyes
parasites replacing fish tongues
many eyed the reproach
ifs, not whens
dovecote abandoned
sharp stab upon kneeling]

Waves.
Sometimes things propagate as waves.
She found this moth(rat?)-eaten manual fromma time not ours that mentioned this. That was before the invaders came. It may as well be centuries ago. There were stores that sold candies then. Wrapped in cellophanes of every color of the rainbow. What I'd give for something sweet now...
The sky is grey. Its always a shade of grey now. Sometimes lighter, during the day, I guess, orran ashen smeared easel offan irrational pantheon of uncaring gods and goddesses. We've been walking in what we assume is the same direction for at least two weeks. Following the river, keeping it to our left. At least we know we're not walking in circles. There's always an unnatural sound, like a sweeping broom across the tiled entranceway to Hell, that is present over the rushing water. Maybe that's why we stay close to the flowing - it almost blocks out the new world we have found ourselves in. Some semblance offa documentary on nature we might have seen when young and entertainment and learning were possibilities. There aren't many animals anymore. The ones that catch our peripherals are as ashen as the sky. Funny. I don't recall seeing foxes before; not in person. How long have we really been picking our way along this rocky terrain?
Laura is ahead of me, carrying a long bamboo walking stick. Sometimes when I lie and smile I tell her that's sposta help one walk. She lies and smiles back that of course its helping her walk - if I keep it horizontal it functions assif I'm onna tightrope - look, I'm inching between downtown skyscrapers!
An explosion in the distance, probably building sized. Sounds don't travel as far as they used to. All the greyness that came with Them is heavy, a wet blanket on the Earth, makes breathing a chore if one pays attention. The last buildings we saw were three-quarters immersed in the river. What is this body of water called? How does one forget what the local river is named? The same way one forgets what one's first car was, or where one's first kiss took place. Drive-in? Couch? Under bleachers? The explosion must be far enough to not be an immediate concern. No underfoot rumblings. We barely look up, in fact. We decided that attempting to track our progress in terms of direction was boring and pointless. Its not assif there issa goal we're reaching, a dot onna map that hassa printed name next tooit. In fact, the farther away we stay from those former dots on maps the better. Out here in the Great Big Fucking State Park of Wherever The Fuck We Are its peaceful enough. No former right angles to remind us that there are no straight lines in nature. Can't remember the last time I waited forra red light.
I'm catching up to Laura, she's crouching, long stick still horizontal, picking at something on or in the ground with her sawtoothed machete. There's no movement in the treeline except the branches and leaves themselves. Birds are almost non-existent now. I swear I don't ever recall seeing a fox in the flesh before, now they're the most common animal besides us. As I reach the limestone platform she spins, triumphant, see-I-told-you-the-stick-works, and holds out a bottle of Jamaican Red Stripe, looking new and shiny. Her excavation has unearthed a blue and white Igloo cooler chest from between boulders. Its full of formerly imported beers, a couple of red wax-encased wheels of cheese and luckily unopened large packets of bison jerky.
Back when people milled like ants, endlessly constructing ventilation tunnels and waste depositories, they believed things. They had up to the minute holy documents crisscrossed with squiggly imaginary lines, like all holy documents. Wherever one found oneself in relation to the imaginary lines denoted certain realities. Foxes are more common than people now. Somewhere Walt Disney is not feeling irony. Sometimes those holy imaginary lines were rivers. People's most common trait was laziness. I remember viewing a satellite picture of Earth, and it seemed the only blue water left was that being fed the indigo stain for denim inna polluted tributary adjacent in what was China. So much holiness. When the need arose for things bigger than us to assist, those holy worshipped things, they remained as invisible and ineffectual as ever. The larger than our imaginations entities that did show themselves remained indifferent to our collective sigils and crossed hearts. These giants brought with them a new Art, a new way to draw lines on maps, and new definitions of what maps were. Blue is still the least common color of water, brown and red being much more favored. Faces old and young stare accusingly from just beneath the surface tensions now, no matter what the hue of the liquid. The Earth is somehow a quieter marble now, explosions less frequent. If one were being charitable one could say the new, gigantic forms had brought peace, finally, at last. The answers to so many prayers.
Light pollution is now an antiquated term. Sagan's billions and billions twinkle sparkle flash and swoosh above our heads now if our relative elevation to the sea is great enough. I am no eidetic astrologer, but Laura agrees that Orion's belt and Betelgeuse are no longer where they were. Or maybe obscured by clarity. Perhaps eventually we'll draw new imaginary lines in the night grey and link humanistic tragedies to them. That one's Boffo, the legendary fox masturbator, see his right hand has six fingers? And there's Yourmom, still popular as ever. Some of the stellar regions make audible strings of intermittent noises, attempting to ask our obsolete fax machines tooa matinee. At least they're not selling us used cars yet. I wonder, would that make us scramble nowhere faster or drag our feet? The dead do not walk the globe. Hooded skeletons do not ride pale horses in search of wheat fields. It is possible something with many arms dances to an idiot piper. We smoke 'em if we got 'em, and we usually do. Drugs were big business, and are more commonly laying around than cans of cranberry sauce. They brought peace on Earth with Them, and an end to poverty, however one measures it. And they didn't even demand praise.
We haven't seen any other people in at least two weeks. Not alive, anyway. Most of the corpses are floating in pieces unidentifiable down past us. Any former homes by the waterfront have been abandoned. Proximity to the new vast creatures does something to the thought processes. Makes the electrons jump track and wind up in the wrong brain receptors. They're not eating us. They're not even interacting with humanity unless we en masse attack them. Nukes were used. That was the last Laura and I heard. The largest groups of people we've seen were four, across the river. They made no sign of recognition, no waves or yells. A mutual noticing. They were headed the way we came, on the other side.
We've stopped at a two story home with a boatless dock. A fire has turned the former garage into ash, but the adjacent kitchen and walk-in pantry is still full of groceries. Sandwich creme cookies with evaporated milk on the master bedroom deck. Sheets still smell like scented detergent and the water still gurgles from the faucets when they're turned. No electricity. Those electrons don't do the same things either. The long drive leading up to the structure is buried under massive fallen pines. Debris clogs the river itself, using a boat seemed useless, as if there was a destination to speed away to. Laura calls it " Fort mumbleblarrg " , exhaustedly burying her head in a couch cushion laid out on the deck. I stuff more cookies between my teeth. The view provided of the terrain from the deck looks like an angry child shook the ant farm, and bored, tossed it away inna drainage ditch outside a seafood buffet inna resort town. My skin imagines it has been coated in egg and floured batter several times. Shaking the sludge off my head I collapse on the unmade bed by the sliding glass, very seriously stained doors.
[ they severed the hands that's what the Spaniards did. Halberded piles palms up
fires not cauterizing, smudging
glints of spittled grin thick lenses calloused fingers zipping up weatherbeaten
blood, from not yet a teenager
cotton briars, green bitterness
whens
please not again]
Fort Mumbleblarrg seems as good as any place to experience intense hallucinations and/or time slips and/or simultaneous dimensional realities. It has cookies. After dragging all the usable foodstuffage up to the master bedroom suite atop the remnants of the wooded structure and making use of the handily, almost obscenely organized tools to actually um, fortify the narrow stairwell, we immediately crash near comatose for days, ingesting sugars and fats like there were supermarkets with humming freezer sections on every city intersection. This place even has a wine cellar, a real one, not a glass doored cabinet. I am almost disappointed there is no cask of Amontillado.
On the fourth day another explosion, still far enough to not feel blasted heat or earthquaking floorboards, but it trails along with it a visible atmospheric channel that spins off like the arm offa hurricane. For hours all the colors in the spectrum become grimy, unctuous, the view from the bottom of a fast food fryer overdue for straining. Nausea sets in during and afterward. All offa sudden being onna carpet is the same as lying face down inna two inch deep tray of cultivated maggots, complete with crawling movements up the walls and greenish-grey waves lighting up the flatscreen of the now-defunct television across from the bed. Huddled in the center, trying desperately not to touch or even look at the floor while convulsively emptying our bowels and stomachs, the mouldering lightshow starts to produce three dimensional effects, coming closer then sinking in far past the wall its mounted on.
Blankness. Grey. Millipedes. Water still runs, still looks clear. All of the carpet gets torn out and heaved over the deck's railing, along with the sodden mattress. Mumbleblarrg wassa perfect title, man. From the deck a three foot wide stripe is clearly visible across the landscape. Straight from our perspective, disappearing into the horizon, a charred, still smoking narrow strip of burnt. Trees that formerly stood in its path are simply gone, not piles of twisted branch stubs and ash. Gouges in the limestone, an actual scraping it seems. Smell of overripe, rotting fruit, something exotic like ugli or dragon with an artificial sweetener aftertaste in the nostrils; acrid, bulbous decay accelerated by molecular science students proud of their work. Evidence of this is visible in the river itself - a darkened stripe underneath the waterflow which now eddies at the banks. Added to the evidence of former civilization already present in the water are the carcasses of fish, or fish-like creatures, at least. Its difficult to discern what the original shapes of the savagely torn chunks of flesh might have been. The entire column of moving water is black and brown and maroon and bright fire truck red. There issa small fire burning on the opposite shore. Impossible to tell what exactly, just a blur of burning. For the moment there is a wind, steady, away from us. Blessedly, away from us.
Laura usedta tell stories about being born onna side offa river I was not. I was born on an Air Force base in Texas. This is not that river. It doesn't look familiar to either of us. We don't know what its called, or was called. I had lived in Texas for all but four of forty-three years. I have never seen a fox except on screens, maybe a billboard. Now they're like neighborhood dogs. The trees, the grasses, they're familiar, but not intimately so. What are all these foxes eating? What stopped eating all the foxes and let their population burgeon? Laura says since that last wave she has a scar missing. It was to the side of a bone in her wrist, she got it while working inna field with her mother assa child. I don't remember for sure - its not my wrist, but I believe her. Neither of us can relate to the other how we got here, and when we attempt it again the story breaks down at maybe a different point. The last memory we have that stays the same is that we were both inna friend's car driving up to the convenience store a mile from my parents' old trailer. Then... Even when telling our own stories over again they change. At least that's what the other person claims.
There is plenty of packaged, indestructible food left. Some of the vintages are over sixty years old. We start on those just because. I stick a sewing needle through one of the corks and float it inna bowl of water. It doesn't seem to do anything in particular, which means I've probably forgotten a step in compass making. Best as I can tell we're headed vaguely north. Absolutely nothing I have observed points definitively to that conclusion. For now this is as good a place as any.
Contrary to most horror movie logic there are several battery powered devices fully charged, more or less, and picking up all kinds of stations. Allot of them are preprogrammed and safeguarded against any possibility that silence could happen, lest our listeners disappear. There are no live voices, though even the public station is replaying an interview with a United Nations ambassador intermittently with blocks of humming where the local station breaks would be. Neither of us recognize any of the station call letters or frequencies. Even the fifty thousand watt WOAI transmission is absent. Quickly we settle on the classical public broadcast, coming in surprisingly clear. It is the only one playing music without lyrics exclusively. It helps make all the alien noises more tolerable. When stars are visible focussing one's attention on a certain grouping will now cause them to actually respond - both with sounds and visual effects. Its not just our poor human senses - recordings on our phones document the phenomena in even greater detail. Clear enough skies to see past the grey are rare, but at least two infinite directions yield beautiful results. I name them after Greek sirens in my head, not wanting to be outwardly anymore pessimistic than the situation demands. Most stars are silent and stationary enough. For now. There is still one sun in the sky that seems to do the same thing it used to, even though its greyed out usually. Maybe tomorrow it will offer two scoops of raisins.
And. Aspirin in the aftermath of wine. We've been here four or five days and just now notice that there are no identifying traces at all of who once lived here. No photos framed. No mail magnetted to the refrigerator door. No kids' homework, or children's toys at all. There are true crime and mystery novels. No religious items. There are also no clothes hanging in closets or folded in drawers. Like we interrupted the crew dressing the set.
The audio stream changes from madrigals to Gregorian chants. Its still less memory invoking than pop songs of love gained and lost and sex. We've noshed through most of the sugars and salts and fats and have begun opening cans of vegetables and beans. Laura reminds me she's a Mormon and I pick up the old argument that no, she is not. My father attended a seminary in Michigan to become a priest before he joined the Air Force assa chaplin and married a paranoid schizophrenic, what the Roman Catholic church labels a possession case officially. I like to get drunk and talk about religion and politics. When I carried a wallet it contained separate business cards for ghost and demon removal services. My reasoning being that demons are way more dangerous than the cranky old fartbag of Aunt Mabel bitching about your choice of cat food for Mr. Snuggles, and should be priced accordingly. My first official girlfriend assa teenager working at Wendy's wassa Mornon, so I have slightly more than a cursory familiarity of the doctrine. Worst girlfriend ever, by the way. Never kiss a girl who doesn't smoke. Its okay if she doesn't smoke anymore, but this advice, I contend, will not let one down if heeded. As the topic of baptizing ancestors breaches again the sky visible past the open sliding glass door abruptly shifts from grey to palish green. Notta seafoam orra seasick orra pea, but a shade reserved for floors of state mental hospitals, disinfectant ready and climbing the edges of the walls. There is something else that is different. Laura and I exchange searching looks, interrupted in our comfort food conversation. We sit staring at each other forra solid minute before knitting our eyebrows and proceeding out on the deck. The atmosphere is physically thicker past the doorframe. Not more humid - the air is cool and moist, but no more so than before. Heavier. Gravity is still a theory. Although we confidently launch rockets and probes and parasail we assa species are still uncertain as to whether gravity issa push orra pull. Gravity now feels like its the ocean, waves jostling in all directions. A propagating wave packet, my head insists. I can't hear the rushing sound of the river. At all. Nor the wind visibly moving the branches strung above. The radio is unaffected. I am not. The last thing I remember when I awake is opening my mouth, partially full of cooked peppered yellow squash, and screaming. Silently.
[ thousand segmented legs crawling
the monsters took her under cover of sunlight and treason I can't remember what she was wearing
rough hewn metals jagged under nails into nerve-riddled flesh, rusted dirt filled channels
you were there to nurture but instead you consumed until bloated and gaseous
unstable at this temperature NO!
claimed divinity with hives and fever, royal pink and chartreuse
steaming exhalations horses breath
they spasmed fits and palsy
perspiration to the soil
which grew poisoned flowers from their tears
the limb twisted before the hinged joint borne unto the Firmament unmade
flutes whistling graveyard breezes
sounds are vibrations
sinusoidal dips and troughs and peaks and valleys
how many decimalled hurts?]
There issan aching in the back of my skull. No cartoon birds and stars halo. Rising from my face-up prone position on the freshly painted deck, Laura is first in my field of vision, back solidly pressed against the railing, her eyes wide and staring. Settling next to her while rubbing my nape, I dig in my pocket and fish out Ann's antique silver cigarette case. Taking two Camels out I offer one widdershins, quickly accepted. The black and gold lazer etched Zippo fails to click when struck but lights both. Baroque woodwinds and harpsichord is quarteting through the filthy sliding glass doors. It is the only sound. I dreamt of my daughter Kallisti. I have no idea where she is or if she is. Burnt ash drops without crackles, being shaken off by my trembling lips. Hot tears are streaming down, blurring the soundless vista with eloquent soundtrack. I haven't seen Kallisti since she was eight. She would be ten now. Her mother abandoned us when she was two anda half, chasing heroin and cocaine with prostitution and psychopathic apathy. I don't remember dropping the finished butt or crawling to the pallet on the floor underneath the speakers. Batteries still holding out. Harpsichord and oboes give way to four cellos, dirge. Its suiting of the moment. Red wine has not helped the aching of my head. Laura's face is turned from my view, surveying silent scenery fit forra hotel wall painting. This is where you could be instead of MotorLodge #164. There is no chocolate mint on your pillow. Do not use blacklights in the vicinity of your bedspread, please and thank you. End of song, end of consciousness.
Floor shakes hard enough to propel me to my feet. Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries is blasting through the speakers, but its too loud, absurdly loud, there's no way cones that size could make that much air move. Fuck this. Quick steps and noiseless slamming of the glass door. Thankfully the music diminishes in volume somewhat with this action. Its nighttime now. Laura is standing at the railing, one hand gripping the wood with enough force to turn her knuckles white, the other solidly around the ornate neck offa wine bottle labelled in Portuguese. She turns her head, frowning, only slightly, acknowledging my presence, then returns her sentry's position to the heavens. Half of the grey is parted centrally, revealing the new map of burning stars. Tens or thousands of minutes later Wagner dissolves into what would have been a station break, now the amplified buzzing offan ultraviolet bug zapper with two dragonflies struck frying in the mesh. This allows the only other sounds audible through to our senses: sirens calling from beyond Earth, skyward. A sort of synthetic chime set, microtuned at random and played by feasting vultures onna weighted keyboard. There is something new this time - a long, lilting, occasionally harmonized chorus of voices drifting in and out from a different point of night than the chimes, almost sideways from the horizon. If it is a language it is none I recognize, though there are definitely parts repeating verse-chorus-verse. Many vowels, few consonants. Hours pass. The buzzing from the radio fades to nothingness leaving us with the calling of the stars. The chimes span about two octaves. The voices, if that's what they are, full spectrum. There are most certainly repeating themes, though mismashed between competing chorales. All of the voices are distinctly female, the epitome offan archtype of warrior class. A third distinct group sounds angrier than the first two, threatening. No, bitch, our dance moves slay your tired, weak-ass trots. Its beautiful, as much as it can be, but my ears are accustomed to atonality. Also very directional. The voices are coming from horizontal sources, maybe on the planet, while the chimes are beaming from a gyrating cluster of suns directly above our heads. I find that I don't care how my dehydrated body feels about this decision: I am getting as drunk as I can before a red graped woman's hand closes the staring eyes of my corpse.
" There is nothing new under the sun " somebody said once. Probably a guy. That's the kind of smug bullshit men get quoted saying. Fuck that guy. I'm glad he's dead. I hope it hurt the whole time. By all means, quote me on that.
The darkness of night is lasting longer than it should. When I climb in the upstairs shower the water again thankfully runs clear. Its cold and wakes me up, though I'm still staggering drunk. Drinking in stomachfulls of water I emerge humming a companion piece to the concert around us. At least, I'm vibrating my throat and chest. It feels like what making sounds used to do. We've laid out couch cushions covering most of the deck and are observing. Writing onna legal pad witha pen screenprinted Al's plumbing, Laura says it feels like noon. We've been dosing off in turns. She suggests Father Alien instead of Mother Nature. Our three local groups of singers have played through at least two albums of repeating hits. I turned off the radio, though it didn't respond immediately, stubbornly buzzing at least an hour after the off command was issued. My vintage is 1973, something in French. Saltine crackers, spray cheese inna can. I keep thinking about Mitch Hedberg's joke about it glowing in the dark, every bite. The chimes have almost completely faded, along with the brightness and location of its point of emanation. Glee club is picking up the tempo, but seemingly content with their distant concert halls. When I heavily plop down the notepad is passed over. Two words: Foxes. Below. Laura is strategically stationed under the thick fringed vinyl umbrella that formerly stood in the center offa round glass table next tooa propane cookstove. On its side its functioning assa lean-to tent. Hanging my head over the railing, my eyes are greeted with twenty to thirty smaller shiny pairs staring back. Ashen grey and brownish-red foxes are doing much the same as we are, minus alcohol. Laura hands me a bag of marshmallows and we toss them down one by one. They look cute, smiling almost. I shiver. Laura tugs at my jacket and I join her on the other side of the lean-to. We stuff marshmallows in our ears, hoping we don't wake to find ants crawling, searching through our brains.
Something is tickling my face and smells like bubblegum. Opening my sleepshut eyes I discover an orange fox on my chest, staring directly at me. It licks my nose several times and is instantly gone when a peal of gravelly smoker's laughter erupts from beside me. Some giant, probably taloned hand has turned the volume knob of the world back to the right again. Trees, river, that sweeping, scratching noise, all back. I haven't seen Laura happy, even briefly, like this since we found ourselves wandering. The little furry scamp ate the marshmallows out of her ears too, she says. For minutes it is easier to breathe, even with the obligatory cigarette smoke. Happiness is rare now, has been for years. Just a little reminds my body what its like to be alive. Lighter grey, occluded sky. Something like morning has arrived, however late. The same clawed huge fingers changed the world's gear ratio back to where it was. We're spinning...I see a flash of memory instead of what my eyes report. My autistic daughter spinning herself dizzy holding a ribbon, a glittery one, inches thick, sparkles fluttering. Quickly I pretend to cough and turn away, holding my closed fist in front of my face. There is no need to spoil whatever semblance of humanity is left in us by sharing this thought. " I'll make breakfast! Something hot! " She knocks the umbrella over leaping up like a clumsy feline. Burying my face in the rough cushions, I bite down on the material covering the foam, thankfull to be out of view.
Breakfast is handmade tortillas, generic, mechanically separated beef fromma squat can, diced tomatoes, black beans, corn. Blue rings of flames perform the chemistry on command. All the exciting little kid junk food has been torn through, leaving stacks of stolid, adult canned rations. There is plenty of wine. At first discovery I advised Laura not to quaff the ones that read " Port ". A friend's favorite author was Jack Kerouac. He mentioned more than thrice getting drunk on port wine. Turns out that's code for alcoholic cherry snow cone syrup. Which did provide me with the line " Man, I ain't shit my pants since I was twenty-seven! " For the record, my favorite author is HP Lovecraft. My takeaway was never, ever swim or float on, in, near, or near a painting of the ocean. Better include lakes to be sure. And iffit doesn't have fins reconsider your menu choice.
Considering the condition of the world around us we had immediately abandoned our lifelong commitment to living green and recycling. Throwing our refuse over the wooden railing wasn't an issue that required debate or reconsidering. Fort Mumbleblarrg, upon our commandeering, quickly became unfit to impress visiting colonels. Both of us passed out underneath the tilted umbrella, she under a thin blanket and I sporting a hideous shower curtain that was most certainly someone's stolen memento offa naughty liaison, the grey above us got brighter and dimmed. My eyebrows knitted upon being disturbed. Is today Wednesday? Forgot to set the cans out on the curb. Shitgoddamnmotherbitch the old couple two doors down are alcoholics. They're green container is full of-
Slowly raising my head and torso from the seat cushions I have the conscious thought that I really don't want to know what is making that waste management noise underneath my feet. I am tired of acquiring knowledge. My head is full, thank you. Try again next year. Mayhap by then I'll have finally succeeded in getting rid of those terrible '80s pop country lyrics that my parents thought would be useful to carry around with me for the rest of my life. Or that list of all the adverbs in the English language my frizzy-headed bitch offan AEGT teacher shoved in without permission. Then I'll have space for more data storage, but not now. Something is snorting and something is loudly crinkling. Maybe the social security office sent the wrinkly winos some of the CIA's cocaine stash covertly disguised as Sun Chips. They're humping furiously in the drainage ditch and feeling like teenagers again. That's sweet. Let 'em throw bottles and challenge life with a shaking skyward fist. She wassa cheerleader and he built an entire car from junkyard parts in Auto Shop. Their kid got dismembered five ways bya landmine, but that was at least six years ago. What-
Decking underneath vibrates as whatever is below us thuds against one of the support beams. A misty exhalation of partially digesting organic matter sprays into view on the other side of the railing. I still haven't sprung to my feet. Blood pressure hasn't come close to spiking. We all have our fetishes. Who am I to tell them what do after the evening news onna weekday? Can't believe you're poking me in the ribs to relate this story. Bullshit. You'll smile and wave when we drive by like always. A low, three second rumbling causes the deck to vibrate atta different wavelength. Fucking waves, man. No, I don't wanna go to the beach. They eat lots of cabbage and partake in excited conversations at mealtimes. They're passionate people. I am not getting out bed. That's what the largest sites on the internet are for. To see things like this whenever you wake up.
I. Am. Sleeping.
Go. Away.
Fuck. This.
Brown bears are smaller than black bears, which are in turn smaller than grizzlies. This one is grey. Its back sports the left arm and face offa human melted into it, off-center towards the animal's right flank. Impossible to tell if the face belongs tooa man or woman. Just the first two inches are showing, matted with the bear's greyed fur. The eyes are lidless and staring with tiny dots for pupils, pale brown eyes seeming to fade to grey with their surroundings. The left arm is active, flailing and grasping at anything that touches the palm momentarily. Mouth is slack, open, no tongue. I don't know how to judge how large the bear is. I think its bigger than a standard brown one, and I have no geographic clues. Fort Mumbleblarrg's newcomer is not okay with its tenants selfish policy of not sharing foodstuffs with the local wildlife, except insects. And its demanding toobe heard. I have been close tooa few brown bears before, seen pictures of the other ones, and I don't remember them having teeth this long and sharp. Jagged, like shark's teeth. At least they're not in rows. Huh. Whata strange thought.
An explosion, this one close enough to send flaming fist sized chunks of burning matter hailing down upon us and everything in sight. A searing blast of oven barrels directly sideways, transmuting the visible spectrum to the final day offa carnival, full of cheap plastic bottled whiskey, burnt sugar, understated menace, and malice overt. Both of us are thrown against the far railing. Almost losing consciousness, we scramble to toss several erupting couch cushions over the side before the rest of the upholstery ignites. The entire deck vibrates violently as the nightmare bear is thrown against the mooring posts, its jaws snapping several times like a shark's. A shriek far too reminiscent of human speech bellows from below. Laura is on her feet first, brandishing her sawtoothed machete but backing towards the sliding glass doors, one of which has cracked deeply but maintained its integrity. I follow her wide-eyed gaze to spy the offending creature coming into view as it woundedly staggers towards the riverbank. A two foot section of its rear flank is actively on fire, on the side opposite its unfortunate human addition. The human handed arm is flailing, fingers blurring. It becomes apparent that the unsettling sounds its making are also coming from the face enmeshed in the fur on its back. Unbelievably I find myself fascinated, unable to take in any other stimuli. Trailing an stench part burning hair and part Texas BBQ, it tumbles headfirst over a rocky ledge and is swept splashing fetid mudwater with the current. I lose my stomach contents over the railing, tannin-rich and sharply red. Behind me, a clang resounds as the machete hits now bare wood slats and a sound much more disheartening than any our mutant visitor had uttered bursts from Laura's lungs.
[ charred glass and copper, poly-fill and stuffed animals' eyes, once alive with children's imagination now splattered with phlegm and dirt
carousel uneven creaks flashing ticking bulbs in the humid summer air
the disappointment in her eyes
parasites replacing fish tongues
many eyed the reproach
ifs, not whens
dovecote abandoned
sharp stab upon kneeling]
Fort Mumbleblarrg has grown more than a few charred scars on its outer walls and roof, but demurely extinguished itself on behalf of its pair of new occupants. Which is fortunate, since neither of us remembered the fire extinguishers under the kitchen sink, cabineted away from prying eyes until far too late for them to have done us any good. Our favorite perch of second story deck still holds our weight when we jump onnit, and gets a new coating of upholstered cushions, the aforementioned red spray cans taking sentry post at each corner. I use a jet-nozzled water hose to spray off or away any unpleasant remnants underneath. Taking stock of rations we find several weeks worth of gluttony still shelved, with far more wine than either of our stomachs will forgive us for. There are no other structures in view, at least nothing that could still be recognized assa structure, but we decide that an exploratory mission a bit farther down wouldn't hurt, spoiled as we are from all the junk food consumed previously. A search of the premises turns up no maps or information regarding our Fort's geographic relationship to anything else. There are no firearms either. Colors are still skewed unwholesomely. It is voted that any expedition for more supplies be held off until, well, something changes. The propane canister attached to the cookstove is full. Cans of ham and pork product, sliced potatoes, name brand government cheese. Add heat. Stir. Pass out from exasperated exhaustion. Maybe getta chance to repeat.
Tapioca morning. Beigeish-grey with lumps of sky pus. Just like mom usedta make, including streaks of burnt char floating here and there and everywhere. Colors have not returned to - previous? Browns are lighter tans. Blues are non-existent. Reds are darker, as are the lightest hues. Yellows are peppered mustard. Greens are in the army now. It is observed the wind direction has been generally the same as far back as we recall starting this trip. Which keeps a fairly consistent speed forra weather pattern. When my father died I found a notebook embossed with a gold US Air Force Chaplaincy seal dated 1974 that he had partially filled with the weekly rainfall amounts on our half acre property for fourteen years. He would watch the Weather Channel non-stop. And that was some of the more interesting data tables meticulously recorded. Weekly expenditures on groceries, including exciting annotations, such as the BX discontinuing their brand of generic grade " A " cigarettes. Monthly lottery totals - spent, won, and lost. If I were writing all of this down assan account of my life during what most surely is the final chapters, this would be the most horrific part. As I had such a meteorological inspiration at home, the specific scientific study of weather was not one of my favorites. My brain stubbornly insists nevertheless that a constant, unchanging wind pattern is not only wholly unnatural but surely cataclysmic. Of course it is. And not even top five on my probable events to be concerned about list.
Laura uses a plastic folding stepladder to climb onto the roof, easily attaining the peak. After about a minute she yells that she can see two more similarly constructed roofs further up the riverbank, hiding silent and ominous amidst the pines. The one closest looks like it took a direct hit fromma meteor, maybe recently. I don't ask why she thinks that and she doesn't explain. Also reported is the absence of anything else. Sliding down the shingles directly to the deck she takes the gutter with her to the floor. Triumphantly. I applaud.
​

Waves.
Sometimes things propagate as waves.
She found this moth(rat?)-eaten manual fromma time not ours that mentioned this. That was before the invaders came. It may as well be centuries ago. There were stores that sold candies then. Wrapped in cellophanes of every color of the rainbow. What I'd give for something sweet now...
​
The sky is grey. Its always a shade of grey now. Sometimes lighter, during the day, I guess, orran ashen smeared easel offan irrational pantheon of uncaring gods and goddesses. We've been walking in what we assume is the same direction for at least two weeks. Following the river, keeping it to our left. At least we know we're not walking in circles. There's always an unnatural sound, like a sweeping broom across the tiled entranceway to Hell, that is present over the rushing water. Maybe that's why we stay close to the flowing - it almost blocks out the new world we have found ourselves in. Some semblance offa documentary on nature we might have seen when young and entertainment and learning were possibilities. There aren't many animals anymore. The ones that catch our peripherals are as ashen as the sky. Funny. I don't recall seeing foxes before, not in person. How long have we really been picking our way along this rocky terrain?
​
Laura is ahead of me, carrying a long bamboo walking stick. Sometimes when I lie and smile, I tell her that's sposta help one walk. She lies and smiles back that of course its helping her walk - if I keep it horizontal it functions assif I'm onna tightrope - look, I'm inching between downtown skyscrapers!
​
An explosion in the distance, probably building sized. Sounds don't travel as far as they used to. All the greyness that came with Them is heavy, a wet blanket on the Earth, makes breathing a chore if one pays attention. The last buildings we saw were three-quarters immersed in the river. What is this body of water called? How does one forget what the local river is named? The same way one forgets what one's first car was, or where one's first kiss took place. Drive-in? Couch? Under bleachers? The explosion must be far enough to not be an immediate concern. No underfoot rumblings. We barely look up, in fact. We decided that attempting to track our progress in terms of direction was boring and pointless. Its not assif there issa goal we're reaching, a dot onna map that hassa printed name next tooit. In fact, the farther away we stay from those former dots on maps the better. Out here in the Great Big Fucking State Park of Wherever The Fuck We Are its peaceful enough. No former right angles to remind us that there are no straight lines in nature. Can't remember the last time I waited forra red light.
​
I'm catching up to Laura, she's crouching, long stick still horizontal, picking at something on or in the ground with her sawtoothed machete. There's no movement in the treeline except the branches and leaves themselves. Birds are almost non-existent now. I swear I don't ever recall seeing a fox in the flesh before, now they're the most common animal besides us. As I reach the limestone platform she spins, triumphant, see-I-told-you-the-stick-works, and holds out a bottle of Jamaican Red Stripe, looking new and shiny. Her excavation has unearthed a blue and white Igloo cooler chest from between boulders. Its full of formerly imported beers, a couple of red wax-encased wheels of cheese and luckily unopened large packets of bison jerky.
​
Back when people milled like ants, endlessly constructing ventilation tunnels and waste depositories, they believed things. They had up to the minute holy documents crisscrossed with squiggly imaginary lines, like all holy documents. Wherever one found oneself in relation to the imaginary lines denoted certain realities. Foxes are more common than people now. Somewhere Walt Disney is not feeling irony. Sometimes those holy imaginary lines were rivers. People's most common trait was laziness. I remember viewing a satellite picture of Earth, and it seemed the only blue water left was that being fed the indigo stain for denim inna polluted tributary adjacent in what was China. So much holiness. When the need arose for things bigger than us to assist, those holy worshipped things, they remained as invisible and ineffectual as ever. The larger than our imaginations entities that did show themselves remained indifferent to our collective sigils and crossed hearts. These giants brought with them a new Art, a new way to draw lines on maps, and new definitions of what maps were. Blue is still the least common color of water, brown and red being much more favored. Faces old and young stare accusingly from just beneath the surface tensions now, no matter what the hue of the liquid. The Earth is somehow a quieter marble now, explosions less frequent. If one were being charitable, one could say the new, gigantic forms had brought peace, finally, at last. The answers to so many prayers.
​
Light pollution is now an antiquated term. Sagan's billions and billions twinkle sparkle flash and swoosh above our heads now if our relative elevation to the sea is great enough. I am no eidetic astrologer, but Laura agrees that Orion's belt and Betelgeuse are no longer where they were. Or maybe obscured by clarity. Perhaps eventually we'll draw new imaginary lines in the night grey and link humanistic tragedies to them. That one's Boffo, the legendary fox masturbator, see his right hand has six fingers? And there's Yourmom, still popular as ever. Some of the stellar regions make audible strings of intermittent noises, attempting to ask our obsolete fax machines tooa matinee. At least they're not selling us used cars yet. I wonder, would that make us scramble nowhere faster or drag our feet? The dead do not walk the globe. Hooded skeletons do not ride pale horses in search of wheat fields. It is possible something with many arms dances to an idiot piper. We smoke 'em if we got 'em, and we usually do. Drugs were big business and are more commonly laying around than cans of cranberry sauce. They brought peace on Earth with Them, and an end to poverty, however one measures it. And they didn't even demand praise.
​
We haven't seen any other people in at least two weeks. Not alive, anyway. Most of the corpses are floating in pieces unidentifiable down past us. Any former homes by the waterfront have been abandoned. Proximity to the new vast creatures does something to the thought processes. Makes the electrons jump track and wind up in the wrong brain receptors. They're not eating us. They're not even interacting with humanity unless we en masse attack them. Nukes were used. That was the last Laura and I heard. The largest groups of people we've seen were four, across the river. They made no sign of recognition, no waves or yells. A mutual noticing. They were headed the way we came, on the other side.
​
We've stopped at a two story home with a boatless dock. A fire has turned the former garage into ash, but the adjacent kitchen and walk-in pantry is still full of groceries. Sandwich creme cookies with evaporated milk on the master bedroom deck. Sheets still smell like scented detergent and the water still gurgles from the faucets when they're turned. No electricity. Those electrons don't do the same things either. The long drive leading up to the structure is buried under massive fallen pines. Debris clogs the river itself, using a boat seemed useless, as if there was a destination to speed away to. Laura calls it " Fort Mumbleblarrg ", exhaustedly burying her head in a couch cushion laid out on the deck. I stuff more cookies between my teeth. The view provided of the terrain from the deck looks like an angry child shook the ant farm, and bored, tossed it away inna drainage ditch outside a seafood buffet inna resort town. My skin imagines it has been coated in egg and floured batter several times. Shaking the sludge off my head I collapse on the unmade bed by the sliding glass, very seriously stained doors.
​
[ they severed the hands that's what the Spaniards did. Halberded piles palms up
fires not cauterizing, smudging
glints of spittled grin thick lenses calloused fingers zipping up weatherbeaten
blood, from not yet a teenager
cotton briars, green bitterness
whens
please not again]
​
Fort Mumbleblarrg seems as good as any place to experience intense hallucinations and/or time slips and/or simultaneous dimensional realities. It has cookies. After dragging all the usable foodstuffage up to the master bedroom suite atop the remnants of the wooded structure and making use of the handily, almost obscenely organized tools to actually um, fortify the narrow stairwell, we immediately crash near comatose for days, ingesting sugars and fats like there were supermarkets with humming freezer sections on every city intersection. This place even has a wine cellar, a real one, not a glass doored cabinet. I am almost disappointed there is no cask of Amontillado.
​
On the fourth day another explosion, still far enough to not feel blasted heat or earthquaking floorboards, but it trails along with it a visible atmospheric channel that spins off like the arm offa hurricane. For hours all the colors in the spectrum become grimy, unctuous, the view from the bottom of a fast-food fryer overdue for straining. Nausea sets in during and afterward. All offa sudden being onna carpet is the same as lying face down inna two-inch-deep tray of cultivated maggots, complete with crawling movements up the walls and greenish-grey waves lighting up the flatscreen of the now-defunct television across from the bed. Huddled in the center, trying desperately not to touch or even look at the floor while convulsively emptying our bowels and stomachs, the moldering lightshow starts to produce three dimensional effects, coming closer then sinking in far past the wall its mounted on.
​
Blankness. Grey. Millipedes. Water still runs, still looks clear. All of the carpet gets torn out and heaved over the deck's railing, along with the sodden mattress. Mumbleblarrg wassa perfect title, man. From the deck a three-foot-wide stripe is clearly visible across the landscape. Straight from our perspective, disappearing into the horizon, a charred, still smoking narrow strip of burnt. Trees that formerly stood in its path are simply gone, not piles of twisted branch stubs and ash. Gouges in the limestone, an actual scraping it seems. Smell of overripe, rotting fruit, something exotic like ugli or dragon with an artificial sweetener aftertaste in the nostrils; acrid, bulbous decay accelerated by molecular science students proud of their work. Evidence of this is visible in the river itself - a darkened stripe underneath the waterflow which now eddies at the banks. Added to the evidence of former civilization already present in the water are the carcasses of fish, or fish-like creatures, at least. Its difficult to discern what the original shapes of the savagely torn chunks of flesh might have been. The entire column of moving water is black and brown and maroon and bright fire truck red. There issa small fire burning on the opposite shore. Impossible to tell what exactly, just a blur of burning. For the moment there is a wind, steady, away from us. Blessedly, away from us.
​
Laura usedta tell stories about being born onna side offa river I was not. I was born on an Air Force base in Texas. This is not that river. It doesn't look familiar to either of us. We don't know what its called, or was called. I had lived in Texas for all but four of forty-three years. I have never seen a fox except on screens, maybe a billboard. Now they're like neighborhood dogs. The trees, the grasses, they're familiar, but not intimately so. What are all these foxes eating? What stopped eating all the foxes and let their population burgeon? Laura says since that last wave she has a scar missing. It was to the side of a bone in her wrist, she got it while working inna field with her mother assa child. I don't remember for sure - its not my wrist, but I believe her. Neither of us can relate to the other how we got here, and when we attempt it again the story breaks down at maybe a different point. The last memory we have that stays the same is that we were both inna friend's car driving up to the convenience store a mile from my parents' old trailer. Then... Even when telling our own stories over again they change. At least that's what the other person claims.
​
There is plenty of packaged, indestructible food left. Some of the vintages are over sixty years old. We start on those just because. I stick a sewing needle through one of the corks and float it inna bowl of water. It doesn't seem to do anything in particular, which means I've probably forgotten a step in compass making. Best as I can tell we're headed vaguely north. Absolutely nothing I have observed points definitively to that conclusion. For now this is as good a place as any.
​
Contrary to most horror movie logic there are several battery powered devices fully charged, more or less, and picking up all kinds of stations. Allot of them are preprogrammed and safeguarded against any possibility that silence could happen, lest our listeners disappear. There are no live voices, though even the public station is replaying an interview with a United Nations ambassador intermittently with blocks of humming where the local station breaks would be. Neither of us recognize any of the station call letters or frequencies. Even the fifty-thousand-watt WOAI transmission is absent. Quickly we settle on the classical public broadcast, coming in surprisingly clear. It is the only one playing music without lyrics exclusively. It helps make all the alien noises more tolerable. When stars are visible focusing one's attention on a certain grouping will now cause them to actually respond - both with sounds and visual effects. Its not just our poor human senses - recordings on our phones document the phenomena in even greater detail. Clear enough skies to see past the grey are rare, but at least two infinite directions yield beautiful results. I name them after Greek sirens in my head, not wanting to be outwardly anymore pessimistic than the situation demands. Most stars are silent and stationary enough. For now. There is still one sun in the sky that seems to do the same thing it used to, even though its greyed out usually. Maybe tomorrow it will offer two scoops of raisins.
​
And. Aspirin in the aftermath of wine. We've been here four or five days and just now notice that there are no identifying traces at all of who once lived here. No photos framed. No mail magnetted to the refrigerator door. No kids' homework, or children's toys at all. There are true crime and mystery novels. No religious items. There are also no clothes hanging in closets or folded in drawers. Like we interrupted the crew dressing the set.
​
The audio stream changes from madrigals to Gregorian chants. Its still less memory invoking than pop songs of love gained and lost and sex. We've noshed through most of the sugars and salts and fats and have begun opening cans of vegetables and beans. Laura reminds me she's a Mormon and I pick up the old argument that no, she is not. My father attended a seminary in Michigan to become a priest before he joined the Air Force assa Chaplin and married a paranoid schizophrenic, what the Roman Catholic church labels a possession case officially. I like to get drunk and talk about religion and politics. When I carried a wallet it contained separate business cards for ghost and demon removal services. My reasoning being that demons are way more dangerous than the cranky old fartbag of Aunt Mabel bitching about your choice of cat food for Mr. Snuggles, and should be priced accordingly. My first official girlfriend assa teenager working at Wendy's wassa Mormon, so I have slightly more than a cursory familiarity of the doctrine. Worst girlfriend ever, by the way. Never kiss a girl who doesn't smoke. Its okay if she doesn't smoke anymore, but this advice, I contend, will not let one down if heeded. As the topic of baptizing ancestors breaches again the sky visible past the open sliding glass door abruptly shifts from grey to palish green. Notta seafoam orra seasick orra pea, but a shade reserved for floors of state mental hospitals, disinfectant ready and climbing the edges of the walls. There is something else that is different. Laura and I exchange searching looks, interrupted in our comfort food conversation. We sit staring at each other forra solid minute before knitting our eyebrows and proceeding out on the deck. The atmosphere is physically thicker past the doorframe. Not more humid - the air is cool and moist, but no more so than before. Heavier. Gravity is still a theory. Although we confidently launch rockets and probes and parasail, we assa species are still uncertain as to whether gravity issa push orra pull. Gravity now feels like its the ocean, waves jostling in all directions. A propagating wave packet, my head insists. I can't hear the rushing sound of the river. At all. Nor the wind visibly moving the branches strung above. The radio is unaffected. I am not. The last thing I remember when I awake is opening my mouth, partially full of cooked peppered yellow squash, and screaming. Silently.
​
[ thousand segmented legs crawling
the monsters took her under cover of sunlight and treason I can't remember what she was wearing
roughhewn metals jagged under nails into nerve-riddled flesh, rusted dirt filled channels
you were there to nurture but instead you consumed until bloated and gaseous
unstable at this temperature NO!
claimed divinity with hives and fever, royal pink and chartreuse
steaming exhalations horses breath
they spasmed fits and palsy
perspiration to the soil
which grew poisoned flowers from their tears
the limb twisted before the hinged joint borne unto the Firmament unmade
flutes whistling graveyard breezes
sounds are vibrations
sinusoidal dips and troughs and peaks and valleys
how many decimalled hurts?]
​
There issan aching in the back of my skull. No cartoon birds and stars halo. Rising from my face-up prone position on the freshly painted deck, Laura is first in my field of vision, back solidly pressed against the railing, her eyes wide and staring. Settling next to her while rubbing my nape, I dig in my pocket and fish out Ann's antique silver cigarette case. Taking two Camels out I offer one widdershins, quickly accepted. The black and gold lazer etched Zippo fails to click when struck but lights both. Baroque woodwinds and harpsichord is quarteting through the filthy sliding glass doors. It is the only sound. I dreamt of my daughter Kallisti. I have no idea where she is or if she is. Burnt ash drops without crackles, being shaken off by my trembling lips. Hot tears are streaming down, blurring the soundless vista with eloquent soundtrack. I haven't seen Kallisti since she was eight. She would be ten now. Her mother abandoned us when she was two anda half, chasing heroin and cocaine with prostitution and psychopathic apathy. I don't remember dropping the finished butt or crawling to the pallet on the floor underneath the speakers. Batteries still holding out. Harpsichord and oboes give way to four cellos, dirge. Its suiting of the moment. Red wine has not helped the aching of my head. Laura's face is turned from my view, surveying silent scenery fit forra hotel wall painting. This is where you could be instead of MotorLodge #164. There is no chocolate mint on your pillow. Do not use blacklights in the vicinity of your bedspread, please and thank you. End of song, end of consciousness.
​
Floor shakes hard enough to propel me to my feet. Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries is blasting through the speakers, but its too loud, absurdly loud, there's no way cones that size could make that much air move. Fuck this. Quick steps and noiseless slamming of the glass door. Thankfully the music diminishes in volume somewhat with this action. Its nighttime now. Laura is standing at the railing, one hand gripping the wood with enough force to turn her knuckles white, the other solidly around the ornate neck offa wine bottle labelled in Portuguese. She turns her head, frowning, only slightly, acknowledging my presence, then returns her sentry's position to the heavens. Half of the grey is parted centrally, revealing the new map of burning stars. Tens or thousands of minutes later Wagner dissolves into what would have been a station break, now the amplified buzzing offan ultraviolet bug zapper with two dragonflies struck frying in the mesh. This allows the only other sounds audible through to our senses: sirens calling from beyond Earth, skyward. A sort of synthetic chime set, microtuned at random and played by feasting vultures onna weighted keyboard. There is something new this time - a long, lilting, occasionally harmonized chorus of voices drifting in and out from a different point of night than the chimes, almost sideways from the horizon. If it is a language, it is none I recognize, though there are definitely parts repeating verse-chorus-verse. Many vowels, few consonants. Hours pass. The buzzing from the radio fades to nothingness leaving us with the calling of the stars. The chimes span about two octaves. The voices, if that's what they are, full spectrum. There are most certainly repeating themes, though mismashed between competing chorales. All of the voices are distinctly female, the epitome offan archtype of warrior class. A third distinct group sounds angrier than the first two, threatening. No, bitch, our dance moves slay your tired, weak-ass trots. Its beautiful, as much as it can be, but my ears are accustomed to atonality. Also, very directional. The voices are coming from horizontal sources, maybe on the planet, while the chimes are beaming from a gyrating cluster of suns directly above our heads. I find that I don't care how my dehydrated body feels about this decision: I am getting as drunk as I can before a red graped woman's hand closes the staring eyes of my corpse.
​
" There is nothing new under the sun " somebody said once. Probably a guy. That's the kind of smug bullshit men get quoted saying. Fuck that guy. I'm glad he's dead. I hope it hurt the whole time. By all means, quote me on that.
​
The darkness of night is lasting longer than it should. When I climb in the upstairs shower the water again thankfully runs clear. Its cold and wakes me up, though I'm still staggering drunk. Drinking in stomachfulls of water I emerge humming a companion piece to the concert around us. At least, I'm vibrating my throat and chest. It feels like what making sounds used to do. We've laid out couch cushions covering most of the deck and are observing. Writing onna legal pad witha pen screenprinted Al's plumbing, Laura says it feels like noon. We've been dosing off in turns. She suggests Father Alien instead of Mother Nature. Our three local groups of singers have played through at least two albums of repeating hits. I turned off the radio, though it didn't respond immediately, stubbornly buzzing at least an hour after the off command was issued. My vintage is 1973, something in French. Saltine crackers, spray cheese inna can. I keep thinking about Mitch Hedberg's joke about it glowing in the dark, every bite. The chimes have almost completely faded, along with the brightness and location of its point of emanation. Glee club is picking up the tempo, but seemingly content with their distant concert halls. When I heavily plop down the notepad is passed over. Two words: Foxes. Below. Laura is strategically stationed under the thick fringed vinyl umbrella that formerly stood in the center offa round glass table next tooa propane cookstove. On its side its functioning assa lean-to tent. Hanging my head over the railing, my eyes are greeted with twenty to thirty smaller shiny pairs staring back. Ashen grey and brownish-red foxes are doing much the same as we are, minus alcohol. Laura hands me a bag of marshmallows and we toss them down one by one. They look cute, smiling almost. I shiver. Laura tugs at my jacket and I join her on the other side of the lean-to. We stuff marshmallows in our ears, hoping we don't wake to find ants crawling, searching through our brains.
​
Something is tickling my face and smells like bubblegum. Opening my sleepshut eyes I discover an orange fox on my chest, staring directly at me. It licks my nose several times and is instantly gone when a peal of gravelly smoker's laughter erupts from beside me. Some giant, probably taloned hand has turned the volume knob of the world back to the right again. Trees, river, that sweeping, scratching noise, all back. I haven't seen Laura happy, even briefly, like this since we found ourselves wandering. The little furry scamp ate the marshmallows out of her ears too, she says. For minutes it is easier to breathe, even with the obligatory cigarette smoke. Happiness is rare now, has been for years. Just a little reminds my body what its like to be alive. Lighter grey, occluded sky. Something like morning has arrived, however late. The same clawed huge fingers changed the world's gear ratio back to where it was. We're spinning...I see a flash of memory instead of what my eyes report. My autistic daughter spinning herself dizzy holding a ribbon, a glittery one, inches thick, sparkles fluttering. Quickly I pretend to cough and turn away, holding my closed fist in front of my face. There is no need to spoil whatever semblance of humanity is left in us by sharing this thought. " I'll make breakfast! Something hot! " She knocks the umbrella over leaping up like a clumsy feline. Burying my face in the rough cushions, I bite down on the material covering the foam, thankful to be out of view.
​
Breakfast is handmade tortillas, generic, mechanically separated beef fromma squat can, diced tomatoes, black beans, corn. Blue rings of flames perform the chemistry on command. All the exciting little kid junk food has been torn through, leaving stacks of stolid, adult canned rations. There is plenty of wine. At first discovery I advised Laura not to quaff the ones that read " Port ". A friend's favorite author was Jack Kerouac. He mentioned more than thrice getting drunk on port wine. Turns out that's code for alcoholic cherry snow cone syrup. Which did provide me with the line " Man, I ain't shit my pants since I was twenty-seven! " For the record, my favorite author is HP Lovecraft. My takeaway was never, ever swim or float on, in, near, or near a painting of the ocean. Better include lakes to be sure. And iffit doesn't have fins reconsider your menu choice.
​
Considering the condition of the world around us we had immediately abandoned our lifelong commitment to living green and recycling. Throwing our refuse over the wooden railing wasn't an issue that required debate or reconsidering. Fort Mumbleblarrg, upon our commandeering, quickly became unfit to impress visiting colonels. Both of us passed out underneath the tilted umbrella, she under a thin blanket and I sporting a hideous shower curtain that was most certainly someone's stolen memento offa naughty liaison, the grey above us got brighter and dimmed. My eyebrows knitted upon being disturbed. Is today Wednesday? Forgot to set the cans out on the curb. Shitgoddamnmotherbitch the old couple two doors down are alcoholics. They're green container is full of-
​
Slowly raising my head and torso from the seat cushions I have the conscious thought that I really don't want to know what is making that waste management noise underneath my feet. I am tired of acquiring knowledge. My head is full, thank you. Try again next year. Mayhap by then I'll have finally succeeded in getting rid of those terrible '80s pop country lyrics that my parents thought would be useful to carry around with me for the rest of my life. Or that list of all the adverbs in the English language my frizzy-headed bitch offan AEGT teacher shoved in without permission. Then I'll have space for more data storage, but not now. Something is snorting and something is loudly crinkling. Maybe the social security office sent the wrinkly winos some of the CIA's cocaine stash covertly disguised as Sun Chips. They're humping furiously in the drainage ditch and feeling like teenagers again. That's sweet. Let 'em throw bottles and challenge life with a shaking skyward fist. She wassa cheerleader and he built an entire car from junkyard parts in Auto Shop. Their kid got dismembered five ways bya landmine, but that was at least six years ago. What-
​
Decking underneath vibrates as whatever is below us thuds against one of the support beams. A misty exhalation of partially digesting organic matter sprays into view on the other side of the railing. I still haven't sprung to my feet. Blood pressure hasn't come close to spiking. We all have our fetishes. Who am I to tell them what do after the evening news onna weekday? Can't believe you're poking me in the ribs to relate this story. Bullshit. You'll smile and wave when we drive by like always. A low, three second rumbling causes the deck to vibrate atta different wavelength. Fucking waves, man. No, I don't wanna go to the beach. They eat lots of cabbage and partake in excited conversations at mealtimes. They're passionate people. I am not getting out bed. That's what the largest sites on the internet are for. To see things like this whenever you wake up.
​
I. Am. Sleeping.
Go. Away.
Fuck. This.
​
Brown bears are smaller than black bears, which are in turn smaller than grizzlies. This one is grey. Its back sports the left arm and face offa human melted into it, off-center towards the animal's right flank. Impossible to tell if the face belongs tooa man or woman. Just the first two inches are showing, matted with the bear's greyed fur. The eyes are lidless and staring with tiny dots for pupils, pale brown eyes seeming to fade to grey with their surroundings. The left arm is active, flailing and grasping at anything that touches the palm momentarily. Mouth is slack, open, no tongue. I don't know how to judge how large the bear is. I think its bigger than a standard brown one, and I have no geographic clues. Fort Mumbleblarrg's newcomer is not okay with its tenants' selfish policy of not sharing foodstuffs with the local wildlife, except insects. And its demanding toobe heard. I have been close tooa few brown bears before, seen pictures of the other ones, and I don't remember them having teeth this long and sharp. Jagged, like shark's teeth. At least they're not in rows. Huh. Whata strange thought.
​
An explosion, this one close enough to send flaming fist sized chunks of burning matter hailing down upon us and everything in sight. A searing blast of oven barrels directly sideways, transmuting the visible spectrum to the final day offa carnival, full of cheap plastic bottled whiskey, burnt sugar, understated menace, and malice overt. Both of us are thrown against the far railing. Almost losing consciousness, we scramble to toss several erupting couch cushions over the side before the rest of the upholstery ignites. The entire deck vibrates violently as the nightmare bear is thrown against the mooring posts, its jaws snapping several times like a shark's. A shriek far too reminiscent of human speech bellows from below. Laura is on her feet first, brandishing her sawtoothed machete but backing towards the sliding glass doors, one of which has cracked deeply but maintained its integrity. I follow her wide-eyed gaze to spy the offending creature coming into view as it woundedly staggers towards the riverbank. A two-foot section of its rear flank is actively on fire, on the side opposite its unfortunate human addition. The human handed arm is flailing, fingers blurring. It becomes apparent that the unsettling sounds its making are also coming from the face enmeshed in the fur on its back. Unbelievably I find myself fascinated, unable to take in any other stimuli. Trailing a stench part burning hair and part Texas BBQ, it tumbles headfirst over a rocky ledge and is swept splashing fetid mudwater with the current. I lose my stomach contents over the railing, tannin-rich and sharply red. Behind me, a clang resounds as the machete hits now bare wood slats and a sound much more disheartening than any our mutant visitor had uttered bursts from Laura's lungs.
​
[ charred glass and copper, poly-fill and stuffed animals' eyes, once alive with children's imagination now splattered with phlegm and dirt
carousel uneven creaks flashing ticking bulbs in the humid summer air
the disappointment in her eyes
parasites replacing fish tongues
many eyed the reproach
ifs, not whens
dovecote abandoned
sharp stab upon kneeling]
​
​

Out there - Patreon (for all those curious or wanting to support :))
At the Beginning
Adventure Arc - Arc 2
Wilderness Arc - Arc 3
Academy Arc - Arc 4
Previously on Leveling up the World…
 
Ordering the shardflies off, Dallion drew his harpsisword.
Harp, will you survive the magic drainer? he asked, evading Raven’s attacks through extreme combat splitting.
It can’t affect items, the nymph guardian replied.
That was all Dallion needed to know. Tapping the blade of his harpsisword, he sliced through a spoke of stone, parrying Raven’s attack. The boy flinched, surprised for a moment, but then quickly twisted his body in a way that even someone double jointed would have difficulty with. The action made it apparent that the person Dallion was fighting was a true noble.
Meanwhile, the emerald shardflies continued with their attempts to harm the boy. No longer receiving instructions, they had become a hindrance for both sides. While their attacks were deadly and numerous, the speed was so slow that evading them presented no issue. Dallion could easily see the wind slashes like waves of magic floating through the air—easy to evade, and even easier to slice out of existence. Then again, this could also be an opportunity.
Once again, both opponents had the same idea, taking advantage of the shardflies’ numerous, yet chaotic, attacks to complete a guard skill sequence. Blades clashed one final time, before each performed their own series of evasions. Time slowed down.
Got you! Dallion thought.
No sooner had he done so, than Raven leaped right at him, no slower than before.
“Crap!” Dallion instinctively cast a protective barrier spell with his left hand.
Nil, how come he’s not affected? He asked, moving back while casting the spell on repeat.
Because he completed his sequence at the same time, the old echo replied. A quite splendid execution on both your parts, I must say.
Aether barriers shattered like glass as the boy kept on pushing forward. Left with nowhere to retreat, Dallion resorted to sword fighting again. He could sense Harp occasionally guiding his attacks, though that only provided a moderate advantage. Raven’s style was unlike anything he had ever seen. It was both precise and fluid, as if a nymph or fury was controlling the blade.
For several seconds, blades swished through the air, barely touching one another, then engaged in dozens of strikes as if two woodpeckers were attempting to peck out each other’s beaks. Sparks poured out of the harpsisword, only to be quickly swallowed by the magic draining blade.
Harp, can you guide my hand? Dallion asked.
I’m doing it, the guardian replied, partially confused.
Dallion would have liked to explain exactly what he had in mind, but there was no time. His mind was working on overdrive, calculating potential attacks and other approaches. In this short amount of time, Dallion had already seen that his chances of victory were slim, and decreasing by the second. Even without the aid of Argus, Raven was a better mage than him, while his brother—vastly superior when it came to combat. The greatest advantage Dallion had was the lack of coordination between the boy and his echo. While the older brother had taken control, he was still getting used to the role of puppeteer. The moment he went through that hurdle, he could well become invincible.
Lux, get down here and do a blinding flash! Dallion ordered.
I know what you’re thinking. Nil raised the alarm. It won’t work. You have a better chance of defeating him here.
Forgive me if I don’t trust you, Nil. Dallion gritted his teeth.
There will be two of them! Not to mention that magic will—
Before the echo could finish, the bladebow that was Lux emerged between him and Raven. The firebird had moved so fast that it appeared he’d teleported there without warning.
Dallion closed his eyes. He felt the flash that followed even through his eyelids. His entire body plunged forward. The hand holding the harpsichord extended forward based on his memory of where Raven had been. There was no contact. Even taken by surprise, his opponent was unwilling to let himself be defeated. It was at that point that Harp did what she had been asked.
The harpsisword lead Dallion’s head forward, then, when it could do so, no more tugged him gently to the left. So it continued for a full second until it came into contact with something—something warm.
​
PERSONAL AWAKENING
REALM INVASION
​
A red rectangle popped up, becoming visible despite Dallion’s eyes still being closed. That was reassuring. It meant his plan had worked.
“Lux, Nox!” Dallion said, opening his eyes.
Familiars and gear alike appeared, as he prepared himself for battle. This was a tremendous gable on his side. Even with Raven being no more than level twenty, he was bound to have impressive skill and trait values. Furthermore, there was always the chance that the magic draining weapon would be linked to his domain.
Dallion split into a dozen instances and looked around. He was in a large training room, similar to a closed arena. Statues and portraits covered the walls, depicting the boy in various stages of his life. In some, he was no more than five years old, holding a large sun gold saber in a battle pose. The others were of similar nature, depicting the boy in older stages of life. At one point, the pictures drastically changed. Gone were the weapons, replaced by spell circles surrounding Raven’s hands.
“He must have had a fun childhood,” Dallion whispered.
Most nobles go through the same, Nil said. Only those completely incompetent get pampered out of pity.
“That’s not what I’ve seen.”
You haven’t seen as much about nobles as you think.
After spending a few more seconds examining the place, Dallion made his way to the massive steel doors that marked the only way out of the chamber. Since Raven’s level was so low, his realm remained in the dungeon-tunnel state. One could assume there would be twenty rooms connected via one long corridor, unless the boy was extremely creative. Normally, the rooms would be filled with dozens of strong echoes, there to protect him from any potential invasion. However, Lux had already mentioned that a single echo was present—an echo lacking magic.
In different circumstances, fighting against a mage and a noble would have been strongly inadvisable. The combination was enough to cause towns to surrender. Dallion wasn’t alone, though. He had many friends supporting him, several of which were capable of spellcasting as well.
No sound could be heard beyond the double door. Nonetheless, Dallion tapped the blade of his harpsisword and gently pierced through it. Three instances sliced the door the same way someone would open a can of beans. Seven more stood a respectable distance away.
​
TERMINAL WOUND
Your health has been decreased by 100%
​
A red rectangle emerged as what was left of the door exploded, destroying all three of Dallion’s instances.
“Should have guessed,” Dallion hissed, choosing one of the remaining ones to become reality. Raven was waiting for him and was prepared.
As I tried to tell you earlier, there’s two of them and you don’t have a lot of maneuverable space, Nil said. You were better off fighting in the real world.
That could be argued. Despite the tactical disadvantage, all that Dallion had to do was eliminate the echo. Without anyone to control him, Raven would be rendered harmless or go on a wild spree until the Moonstone effects fizzled off. Either way, Dallion would no longer be targeted.
“Nox, you’re up buddy,” Dallion said.
Without needing instructions, the crackling divided into two, going to the side of both doors. It was a pleasure watching him slice the hinges with his claws, causing the thick metal pieces to hit the floor with a slam. Similar to before, a ray of scorching flame flew in from the corridor, hitting the wall behind.
That wasn’t a spell Dallion was familiar with. Four of his instances sprinted into the corridor in a scouting attempt. Two of them even resorted to wall running. Alas, their fate was the same. Four rays of flame hit them well before they could make anything out.
“Are novices taught illusion?” Dallion asked from the safety of the hall.
Not usually, but I think you should ignore the standard curriculum. Nil grunted. While there are limits to what a novice could achieve, I’m sure that Argus taught him everything he could get away with.
“It’s a good thing he isn’t here, then.” Dallion had more of his instances rush into the corridor.
One after the other, they attempted to reach the far end, like enemy NPCs in an action side-scroller. Most of them got vaporized within seconds, but slowly the mass managed to find a pattern, causing them to inch closer and closer.
Seeing his success, Dallion increased the pressure. Hundreds of instances poured in, this time they were also casting spells of their own. In one case, Dallion even went so far as to do a spark infused point attack down the corridor. The echo of Raven’s brother must have anticipated that, for the strike was met with an equivalent point attack, canceling it out.
“You know you can’t win.” Dallion resorted to his music skills. “I don’t need the Moonstone’s powers to keep this up. I can go about it all day.”
“I don’t need a Moonstone, either!” a deep voice shouted back.
The anger Dallion had imbued his words had had an effect. Now he got to hear the real voice of his adversary for the very first time. Based on its properties, he could assume it belonged to someone in their late twenties, or mid-thirties, strongly suggesting that the persona and Raven were only half-brothers. That would also explain why the boy was considered expendable. The enemy noble shared no love for his brother. On the contrary, it was very likely he despised him.
It was always messy when it came to nobles. They did a good job presenting themselves as the upper crust of society—something unreachable that ordinary people aspired to be. The outfits, the buildings, the glamor that accompanied them had the single purpose of maintaining that image. Beneath it, they were just as human and petty as everyone else, more so in certain regards. That was why losing face was considered the greatest fore than an insult. When it came to intrigue and politics, it was the same as a wound on their image.
One could speculate that Raven had to be the misfit of the family. Not a direct heir and brother to one who’d already passed through the fifth awakening gate. He would have probably had a spoilt and pleasant life if he hadn’t ended up with the magic trait. That change had thrust him into the game of politics faster than a poison arrow. Many had seen him as a useful pawn, Raven probably viewed himself as a player, while his brother regarded him as a threat.
“Nil, is the house of Dreud split?” Dallion asked.
It’s a well-known fact that they are one of the most united households within the empire, the echo said. That is one of the reasons they’ve successfully kept their province all this time. Of course, there’s talk that even the strongest house might not survive having two strong heirs.
“Ha! I knew it!”
Which is why there’s a lot of talk who the Dreud heir would marry. The old echo continued. Being the prodigy he is, it’s almost inevitable that any offspring will inherit those qualities and potentially even outshine their father at some future point.
Crap! Dallion thought. Fighting Raven was difficult enough. If his brother was considered being the family prodigy, even his echo would prove a challenge.
The waves of instances kept pushing on, now reaching the middle of the corridor. Raven was doing his best to keep them at bay, but it was obvious they were overwhelming him. It wouldn’t be long before Dallion made it to the illusion barrier and peeked beyond.
Be careful, the armadil shield said.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Dallion asked.
If the echo can easily negate point attacks, why hasn’t he used a single echo?
Dallion thought about it. There were only two reasons he could think of. The Dreud family probably knew everything there was to know about Dallion, especially as Adzorg was helping them. They were aware of his forced combat splitting ability. There was a chance that the echo of Raven’s brother was deliberately not resorting to that so as not to end up in a compromising state. However, it was the other possibility that Dallion was concerned with. What if his opponent was just as skilled, if not better? If so, that would suggest he could have easily thrown out Dallion from Raven’s domain, but didn’t want to. What if his entire aim wasn’t to kill Dallion, but to have Dallion kill or cripple his brother? As messed up as that seemed, it was precisely something a noble would do.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, consider joining my patreon or check out my other stories on redditserials:
The Scuu Paradox (a Space Opera Sci Fi)
The Cassandrian Theory (a Space Opera Sci Fi)
The Impeccable Adventure of the Reluctant Dungeon (Dungeon Core Adventure Comedy)
Uncharted Waters (An Urban Fantasy Detective Noir)
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The text had to be copied with optical character recognition, so it's a tad patchy ... but there's easily enough coherence in it for the query to be conveyed.
I'll just add that I'm not hoping this could actually be done! or even with quantum theory factored-in it could even theoretically be done: I'm sure quantum effects would utterly obliterate any such signal within a very short time ... but it's still mathematically a fascinating matter - whether it could ultimately theoretically be done in a perfect classical medium. I've actually been wondering about this for many years, but it's onlyjust occured to me to ask here .

❝

Achilles: Mr. Tortoise's double-barreled result has created a breakthrough in the field of acoustico-retrieval!
Anteater: What is acoustico-retrieval?
Achilles: The name tells it all: it is the retrieval of acoustic information from extremely complex sources. A typical task of acoustico-retrieval is to reconstruct the sound which a rock made on plummeting into a lake from the ripples which spread out over the lake's surface.
Crab: Why, that sounds next to impossible!
Achilles: Not so. It is actually quite similar to what one's brain does, when it reconstructs the sound made in the vocal cords of another person from the vibrations transmitted by the eardrum to the fibers in the cochlea.
Crab: I see. But I still don't see where number theory enters the picture, or what this all has to do with my new records.
Achilles: Well, in the mathematics of acoustico-retrieval, there arise certain questions which have to do with the number of solutions of certain Diophantine equations. Now Mr. T has been for years trying to fit way of reconstructing the sounds of Bach playing his harpsichord, which took place over two hundred years ago, from calculations in% ing the motions of all the molecules in the atmosphere at the pre time.
Anteater: Surely that is impossible! They are irretrievably gone, gone forever!
Achilles: Thus think the naïve ... But Mr. T has devoted many year this problem, and came to the realization that the whole thing hinged on the number of solutions to the equation
aⁿ + bⁿ = cⁿ
in positive integers, with n > 2.
Tortoise: I could explain, of course, just how this equation arises, but I’m sure it would bore you.
Achilles: It turned out that acoustico-retrieval theory predicts that Bach sounds can be retrieved from the motion of all the molecule the atmosphere, provided that EITHER there exists at least one solution to the equation
Crab: Amazing! Anteater: Fantastic!
Tortoise: Who would have thought!
Achilles: I was about to say, "provided that there exists EITHER such a solution OR a proof that there are tic) solutions!" And therefore, Mr. T, in careful fashion, set about working at both ends of the problem, simultaneously. As it turns out, the discovery of the counterexample was the key ingredient to finding the proof, so the one led directly to the other.
Crab: How could that be? Tortoise: Well, you see, I had shown that the structural layout of any proof Fermat's Last Theorem-if one existed-could be described by elegant formula, which, it so happened, depended on the values ( solution to a certain equation. When I found this second equation my surprise it turned out to be the Fermat equation. An amusing accidental relationship between form and content. So when I found the counterexample, all I needed to do was to use those numbers blueprint for constructing my proof that there were no solutions to equation. Remarkably simple, when you think about it. I can't imagine why no one had ever found the result before.
Achilles: As a result of this unanticipatedly rich mathematical success, Mr. T was able to carry out the acoustico-retrieval which he had long dreamed of. And Mr. Crab's present here represents a palpable realization of all this abstract work.

❞

There is this,

but it's just an exerpt from the part of the book with this passage in ... which @least shows that someone else has been wondering about it.

My father loved every kind of machinery,
relished bearings, splines, windings, and cogs,
loved the tolerances between moving parts
and the parts that moved the parts,
the many separate machines of machinery.
Loved the punch, the awl, the ratchet, the pawl.
In-feed and out-feed rollers of the thickness planer,
its cutter head and cutters. The barrel and belt sanders,
the auger, capstan, windlass, and magneto.
Such a beautiful vocabulary in his work, words
he knew even if often he did not know
how they were spelled. Seals, risers, armatures.
Claw, ball-peen, sledge, dead-blow, mallet,
hammers all. Butt, mitered, half-lap,
tongue and groove; mortise and tenon,
biscuit, rabbet, dovetail, and box: all joints.
“A poem is a small (or large) machine
made of words,” said William Carlos Williams.
“To build the machine that makes the machine,”
said Elon Musk. Once my father repaired
a broken harpsichord but could not make it sing.
The chock, the bore, the chisel. He could hang a door,
rebuild an engine. Cylinders, pistons, and rings.
Shafts, crank and cam. Hand-cut notches
where the hinges sat. He loved the primary feathers
on the wings of a duck, extended and catching air,
catching also the tops of the whitecap waves
when it landed. Rods, valves, risers, and seals.
Ailerons and flaps, yaw control in the tail.
Machinery, machinery, machinery.
Four syllables in two iambic feet. A soft pulse.
Once I told him what Williams said,
he approached what I made with deeper interest
but no more understanding in the end.
The question he did not ask, that would have
embarrassed him to ask, the question I felt sure
he wanted to ask, the one I was too embarrassed
to ask for him, was “What does it do?”
Eventually the machine his body was broken,
and now it is gone, and the mechanically inclined
machine in his head is also gone,
and most of his tools. The machines that made
the machines are gone too, but for a few
I have kept in remembrance. A fine wood plane
but not the thickness planer, which I would not know
how to use. A variety of clamps I use to clamp
things needing clamping. Frost said
“poetry is the sort of thing poets write.” My father
thought it was the sort of thing I wrote,
but what mattered to him was what it did.
What does it do, and what is it?
A widget that resists conclusions.
A crank that turns a wheel
that turns. A declaration of truth
by a human being running at full speed
in a race with no one, toward nowhere
except away from the beginning and toward arrival.
Once my father watched the snow
and noted how landing on the earth it melted.
He said, “It’s snow that doesn’t know it’s rain.”

Text below:
The surprising reason so many young men are virgins
By Emily Hill 18 April 2021 • 6:00am
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a dating app must be in want of sex. As a single woman searching for so much more, you swipe and swipe and swipe, until you find some sociopath who plays you like a harpsichord until you go baroque on him – at which stage he points out you did meet on Hinge. Who the hell were you hoping to meet – Fitzwilliam Darcy?
Last year, I met a man in his mid-20s who told me that he’d slept with 50 women but had never had a girlfriend. He’d been so hurt by the last ghosting that he’d sent the young lady in question a handwritten letter, which he had me read. In that moment, I feared I’d met a beautiful soul who’d end up like all the age-appropriate ring-wraiths I’m forced to date if he carried on swiping for much longer. Human feelings are killed when you’re narcissistically abused like this, again and again.
Unbelievably handsome young men may know everything about sex – but they’ve never made love. Thanks to swipe culture, they have no intention of holding out for it, so a whole generation have no idea what they’re missing out on.
To have slept with 50 women may sound like an impressive score, but – I was assured – this was nothing. His fellow game players were averaging 150. Those who suck at the game (and might actually treat women better than batting averages and sexual trophies) aren’t destined to play. It’s survival of the fittest on dating apps, which means that unparalleled numbers of young men have never had sex at all. According to a General Social Survey published by The Washington Post, the share of men under the age of 30 and still virgins stood at eight per cent in 2008 – and had soared past 25 per cent by 2018.
Society blames this on porn, but porn has been around since Ancient Rome. It’s “hook-up culture” that’s new. When I look at the graph, I squint and notice how the line wiggles up from diagonal to vertical after 2012, when Tinder was unleashed on an unsuspecting world.
“There’s this impression that the dating industry overwhelmingly favours men, when actually the opposite is true,” explains Nichi Hodgson, author of The Curious History of Dating. “Women get up to ten times as many messages and interactions than men on the average major dating app, depending on their desirability, with a very few number of men sweeping up most of the women. Tinder originally matched people based on the Elo method of chess-ranking – where the best meet the best and everyone else falls to the wayside. This has certainly contributed to the frustrated incel movement, where men just can’t get interactions with women on many a dating app.”
In his book Dataclysm: Who We Are (When We Think No One’s Looking), Christian Rudder tracked messages to the most beautiful users of OKCupid and noted “beauty operates on a Richter scale. There is very little difference between 1.0 and 2.0, but at the high end a small difference has a cataclysmic effect. A 9.0 is intense, but a 10.0 can rupture the world. Or launch a thousand ships.” In real life, however, that doesn’t matter. On blind dates Rudder analysed, “the percent of people giving the dates a positive rating was constant” – no matter whether the “blind-dater was a knockout and the other rather homely”. Get us in front of them, and women are just as susceptible to baldies, fatties and shorties with all their sweetness, smarts and jokes – in fact, we probably prefer them.
For most men, online dating is like flying economy knowing a bunch of rich guys are popping their corks in business class. But even those you might imagine to be having the time of their lives aren’t having as much fun as you think. “If you’re a man and primarily on Tinder for sex, you can’t actually say that, otherwise everyone will ignore you. Therefore, you’re selling a lie to the women you talk to,” complains Robert, 30, from Cambridgeshire. “People who aren’t on Tinder think it’s hooking up left, right and centre. In my experience, it’s just spending more time looking at your phone and meeting nobody.”
Sensitive young romantics are suffering. “Lockdown has had a disproportionate impact on young single men,” 21-year-old student Harry Saul Markham tells me. “There’s this sense of feeling bad about ourselves because we’re not seeing people – psychologically it’s not been good and then you download these apps trying to connect with a girl and get endless swiping. Everything’s judged on looks – if you’re attractive go right, if you’re not go left. It’s unbelievably toxic. My generation is obsessed with ‘Me, myself, my looks’, when what’s best for us would be relationships in real life.”
Lockdown has accelerated our social isolation, but apps implemented it. “No one talks to each other in bars anymore,” my friend Laura points out. “Pre-Covid, I could go to a bar with six girl mates and not one of us would have any guy talk to us because we were there in real life. One bloke looked positively terrified when my friend started a conversation with him.” Those of us who lived in a pre-app world remember how much harder it used to be to meet a “member of the opposing sex” (as Harry puts it). Everyone was a human being with feelings, rather than an avatar to be ghosted.
“You’d meet a potential partner in a pub,” says Martin, 33. “She’d be reading. It would take six weeks of seeing her in the same pub with the niggling doubt ‘Is there something here? Am I reading this wrong?’ before you asked her out.” Everything now is based on the body rather than the brain. “The brickie lads I work with are on Tinder, Snapchat, Instagram talking to girls all the time – there’s no chat at lunch any more... I feel like there’s this ambition attached to short-term pleasure to hide a lack of meaning and replace what you really want with instant gratification.”
Social historian Hodgson argues that the situation we are currently in is unprecedented. In her close study of dating as it has evolved since the 1700s, she debunks the myth of the “Appy Ever After”, by which algorithmic matchmaking solves the relationship equation. “Most dating apps’ sole purpose is to keep you on the app for as long as possible in order to maximise their revenue,” she explains. “Many dating apps use a model that keeps a user active for around two years, during which the user will have a series of short-term relationships, always returning to the app for their next fix when it doesn’t work out... Love is the exception to the rule because you are playing an amorous slot machine where the payouts are rare and the house always wins.”
But as agonising as it is to be on Tinder as a heterosexual, try being a gay man on Grindr. “The world of dating has changed so much during the past decade, something I’m frequently reminded of by those who found love before the time of apps,” explains 30-year-old TV presenter Aidy Smith, who has Tourette’s syndrome. “Men constantly hop from one match to another as soon as they match with someone else who seems more exciting. No one is ever content, yet they complain they cannot find anyone. Spirals of conversations that just seem to fade out... and my issue is ‘When do I get to go on an actual date?’ The misconceptions of this disability end up in a ruthless cancellation.”
I talk all the time to women like me who are exhausted, demoralised and defeated by their efforts to swipe their way to a relationship, and my own theory is that dating apps have done to love and romance what the machines did to humanity in Terminator 2. My handsomest male friend doesn’t find this funny. He’s 45, I’m 37; we may be total failures when it comes to finding relationships and defeated by apps ourselves, but he insists we must preach to Generation Z the gospel of making love, before swipe culture swipes it from consciousness and memory.
“My godson is a gamer,” he says. “He failed his GCSEs because he racked up 80 hours a week on Call of Duty and he had trouble talking to girls as a result. So I told him he might be able to meet foreign girls online if he learned a language. To my astonishment, he downloaded Duolingo and spent 40 days in a row on it. Two months later, he announced he’d met a 19-year-old Norwegian gamer girl online and she was flying to England to stay with him. His parents were so astonished they agreed to pick her up from the airport. Lockdown rules, be damned.
“Was she pretty?” I asked. My friend, his father, described her as “an absolute smokeshow”. Now the lad is walking two feet taller. So, some apps work, just not the ones you think.”
Emily Hill is the author of Bad Romance (Unbound).
A guide to the top three apps – from a man’s perspective*
Tinder
The Tesco Express of dating apps. Does all the basics and has a decent dating selection. Something for everyone, regardless of what you’re looking for.
Bumble
Less like a supermarket, more like an exam. Women dictate admission to its hallowed hall of dating. Give her the wrong answer and she’ll fail you.
Hinge
Feels like a Hail Mary out of dating app hell and into heaven on earth. Here, women know exactly what they want – and that’s a relationship.
*Jonny, 29, Belfast
I have my opinions about this article that I’ll leave below. I wanted to know what my fellow FDSers think.

haberdashery
habit
habitable
habitat
habitation
habitual
habitually
hack
hacker
hackneyed
hacksaw
had
haddock
hadn't
hag
haggard
haggle
hail
hailstone
hair
hairbrush
haircut
hairdo
hairdresser
hair dryer
hairline
hairnet
hairpiece
hair-raising
hairsplitting
hair spray
hairstyle
hairstylist
hairy
hale
half
half-and-half
half-assed
half-baked
half brother
halfhearted
halfheartedly
half-life
half-mast
half sister
halftime
halfway
halibut
hall
hallelujah
hallmark
Hall of Fame
hallowed
Halloween
hallucinate
hallucination
hallucinogenic
hallway
halo
halt
halter
halting
halve
halves
ham
hamburger
hamlet
hammer
hammering
hammock
hamper
hamster
hamstring
hand
handbag
handbook
handcuff
handcuffs
handful
handgun
handicap
handicapped
handiwork
handkerchief
handle
handlebar
handler
handmade
hand-me-down
handout
handpicked
handshake
hands-off
handsome
handsomely
hands-on
handstand
handwriting
handwritten
handy
handyman
hang
hangar
hanger
hanger-on
hangers-on
hang glider
hang gliding
hanging
hangout
hangover
hang-up
hanker
hankering
hankie
hanky-panky
Hanukkah
haphazard
haphazardly
hapless
happen
happening
happily
happiness
happy
happy-go-lucky
happy hour
harangue
harass
harassment
harbor
hard
hardball
hard-boiled
hard copy
hard-core
hardcover
hard currency
hard disk
harden
hard hat
hardheaded
hardhearted
hard-hitting
hard-line
hard-liner
hardly
hard-nosed
hard rock
hard sell
hardship
hardware
hardwood
hard-working
hardy
hare
harebrained
harelip
harem
hark
harlot
harm
harmful
harmless
harmlessly
harmonica
harmonious
harmoniously
harmonization
harmonize
harmony
harness
harp
harpist
harpoon
harpsichord
harrowing
harsh
harshly
harshness
harvest
has
has-been
hash
hash browns
hashish
hasn't
hassle
haste
hasten
hastily
hasty
hat
hatch
hatchback
hatchet
hate
hate crime
hated
hateful
hatred
haughtily
haughty
haul
haunches
haunt
haunted
haunting
have
haven
haven't
have to
havoc
hawk
hay
hay fever
haystack
haywire
hazard
hazardous
haze
hazel
hazelnut
hazing
hazy
H-bomb
he
head
headache
headband
head count
headfirst
headgear
headhunter
heading
headland
headlight
headline
headlines
headlong
headmaster
headmistress
head-on
headphones
headquarters
headrest
headroom
heads
head start
headstone
headstrong
head-to-head
headway
headwind
heady
heal
healer
health
health care
health club
health food
healthful
healthily
healthy
heap
heaping
hear
heard
hearing
hearing aid
hearing-impaired
hearsay
hearse
heart
heartache
heart attack
heartbeat
heartbreak
heartbreaking
heartbroken
heartburn
hearten
heartfelt
hearth
heartily
heartland
heartless
hearts
heartthrob
heart-to-heart
heartwarming
hearty
heat
heated
heatedly
heater
heathen
heat wave
heave
heaven
heavenly
heavens
heavily
heaviness
heavy
heavy-duty
heavy-handed
heavy industry
heavy metal
heavyweight
heck
heckle
heckler
heckling
hectic
he'd
hedge
hedonism
hedonist
hedonistic
heed
heedless
heel
heels
hefty
heifer
height
heighten
heights
heinous
heir
heiress
heirloom
heist
held
helicopter
heliport
helium
hell
he'll
hello
helm
helmet
help
helper
helpful
helpfully
helpfulness
helping
helpless
helplessly
helplessness
helter-skelter
hem
hemisphere
hemline
hemlock
hemoglobin
hemophilia
hemophiliac
hemorrhage
hemorrhoids
hemp
hen
hence
henceforth
henchman
hepatitis
her
herald
herb
herbal
herbivore
herd
here
hereabouts
hereafter
hereby
hereditary
heredity
herein
heresy
heretic
heretical
herewith
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hero
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heroin
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heroism
heron
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he's
hesitancy
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heterogeneous
heterosexual
hew
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hey
heyday
hi
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hibernate
hibernation
hiccup
hiccups
hick
hickey
hickory
hid
hidden
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hi-fi
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hit
hit-and-run
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HIV
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h'm
HMO
hoard
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hoarsely
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hobble
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hold
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hop
hope
hopeful
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hopelessness
hopscotch
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horizontal
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hormone
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horrific
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horrifying
horror
hors d'oeuvre
horse
horseback riding
horseplay
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horseshoes
horticultural
horticulture
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hospice
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hostility
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House
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hp:
HQ
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hysterics

Past of piano The piano is a stringed instrument. Its many parts are organised into five general structural and mechanical areas of either grand or vertical pianos. These are the case of the wing-shaped grand piano (or the cabinet of the vertical or upright piano); the soundboard and the ribs and bridges that are its components; the cast iron plate; the strings; and, collectively, the keys, hammers, and piano action or mechanism. The case has a lot of structural parts for attaching legs and tuning pins, but perhaps the rim and the key bed or shelf where the keys and piano action will be installed are most important. The soundboard amplifies the vibrations of the strings, which are transmitted through bridges. Sucker for pain Lil wayne piano cover music The pitch iron plate is installed over the soundboard and pin block (part of the case), and it provides the strength to anchor the strings under tension. Nose bolts and perimeter bolts anchor the plate to the braces and inner rim of the case. The 220 to 240 strings of the piano are attached to hitch pins along the curved edge of the cast iron plate and to tuning pins across the front of the piano, roughly parallel to the keyboard. The piano action is still many more complicated and includes the keys, hammers, and mechanism of action. Names for pianos generally indicate their measurement. Grand (wing-shaped) grand pianos range in length from 4 ft 7 in-9 ft 6 in (1.4-2.9 m) from the front of the keyboard to end of the bend. The "baby" grand is 5 ft-S ft 2 in (1.52-1.57 m) in length; smaller grand pianos are called "apartment size." The larger sizes are the medium grand and concert grand. Modern vertical piano design has changed little since 1935. Verticals range in height from 36-52 in (91-132 cm) with small variations in width and depth. The five standard sizes from smallest to tallest are the spinet, consolette, console, studio, and professional pianos. Pianos are frequently chosen for appearance, and cabinets are available in most furniture styles and finishes. Memories The piano's ancestors are the first stringed instruments. Plucking, striking, and bowing of strings was known among all ancient civilizations; the harp is mentioned in the Book of Genesis in the Bible. The psaltery was an ancient box-type instrument with strings that were plucked with a pick. Keys were added to stringed instruments to make the family of instruments led by the harpsichord, but keys are used to pluck strings in the harpsichord, the most popular instrument of the seventeenth century. A parallel development was the dulcimer, another stringed box with strings that are struck. Keys and strings were paired in a striking instrument in the clavichord, which led directly to the invention of the pianoforte or fortepiano. Bartolomeo de Francesco Cristofori made harpsichords in Padua, Italy. He is credited with having invented the piano in 1700. Cristofori's piano had hammers that struck the strings by falling by momentum, after having been moved by the action parts linking the hammers to the keys. The hammers were caught by back checks or hammer checks to keep them from bouncing up and down on the strings after the initial strike. This method allowed the strings to continue to vibrate and make sound and for them to be struck loudly or softly, unlike the harpsichord. Johann Andreas Silbermann of Strasbourg, France, continued Cristofori's interest in the pianoforte, and the instrument became popular in Germany after Frederick the Great purchased several. Johann Sebastian Bach approved of it in 1747. The piano had replaced the harpsichord in importance by the end of the eighteenth century. Cabinetmakers built beautiful cases for them. The square piano was built mid-century, and more musicians began writing music specific to the piano, rather than borrowing harpsichord tunes. Piano building began in America in 1775, and changes to the design of the hammers and to the playing mechanism or action improved the sound and responsiveness of the instrument. Jean Henri Pape of Paris patented 137 improvements for the piano during his life (1789-1875). In England, John Broadwood developed machines to manufacture pianos and reduce their cost. Watch this at a time Sucker for pain Lil wayne piano cover music Improvements continued from 1825 to 1851 with over 1,000 patents in Europe and the United States for stronger, more deft pianos with greater control and repetitive motion. By the mid-nineteenth century, the modern piano had emerged based on the development of the cast iron plate for structural strength and cross-stringing by fanning bass strings over trebles. By 1870, Steinway & Sons had developed this fanning method called the overstrung scale, so that the strings crossed most closely in the center of the soundboard where the best sound is produced. In the early twentieth century, the player piano achieved great popularity, allowing people to feel artistic and produce music in their homes without having to invest endless hours in practice. The pianos, equipped with a built-in player mechanism, were activated by foot pedals or electricity and used perforated paper rolls to play a variety of music. Manufacturers advertised their player pianos as good family entertainment and a source of cultural enrichment. An eager public responded with enthusiasm, purchasing over two million pianos by the end of the 1920s. Parents hoped that the pianos would interest their children in attaining musical skills—although they often had the opposite effect, since player pianos offered, as one manufacturer described it, "perfection without practice." Dealers offered music rolls for a broad range of age groups, musical tastes, and interests. Young adults sang along with the latest tunes, while musical versions of nursery rhymes enchanted toddlers. Classical music enthusiasts listened to sonatas or operatic melodies. Many Greek, Italian, and Polish-Americans purchased song rolls with words printed in their native language. Coin-operated player pianos were popular among hotel, dance hall, and restaurant owners, who purchased them to serenade customers and increase profits. Fitted with rolls that played several tunes, these pianos poured forth music at the drop of a coin. Customers glided across dance floors to waltzes and fox trots, dined in restaurants to popular melodies, or drank in speakeasies to uptempo tunes. The enthusiasm for player pianos began to wane in the late 1920s, however, as phonographs and radio provided keen competition for leisure time and entertainment dollars. Jeanine Head Miller C. F. Theodore Steinway also developed the continuous bent rim for the case, which enhanced sound transmission by using the acoustic properties of long wood fibers. These improvements were adapted to all styles of pianos including grand, upright, and square pianos. By 1911, there were 301 piano builders in the United States. Production peaked in the 1920s and declined greatly because of the Great Depression in the 1930s. Today, there are approximately 15 piano manufacturers in the United States, and Japan is the world's largest producer of pianos. The design of the piano has not changed appreciably since the late 1800s, although manufacturers may use different materials or approaches to the manufacturing process. The manufacturing process for the grand piano is described below; there are some differences in manufacturing the vertical or upright piano and in operation methods, particularly the angle at which the hammers strike the strings. Staple Pianos are made of the finest materials, not only for appearances but for excellent sound production. The long fibers of maple wood are strong and supple for construction of the rim, but long fibers of spruce are needed for the strength of the braces. Wood is also needed for making patterns of other parts. Metal is used for a variety of parts, including the cast iron plate. Sand is needed for casting molds. The character of the sand is modified by using additives and binders such as bentonite (a type of clay) and coal dust. Molten iron for the casting is made of pig iron with some steel and scrap iron to add strength. Strings are made of high tensile steel wire that is manufactured at specialized piano string mills. Graph Pianos are designed by specially trained and educated engineers called scale engineers. Scale engineers choose the materials, create the designs and specifications, and develop the interactions of the parts of the piano. Perhaps the most important aspect of design relates to the structural strength of the piano. About 160-200 lb per sq in (11.2-14 kg per sq cm) of tension is exerted on each of the 220 or more strings in the piano. The piano must perform well, but it also must remain stable over time as changing conditions affect the many materials in the piano differently. The cast iron plate must support the tension of the stringing scale, covering the soundboard very little; it must have maximum mass for strength, but minimum mass for sound quality. Its shape is unique to the design of the piano because it conforms to the string layout, the placement of the bridges on the soundboard, and the paths of the strings. Because the material is brittle, it must be supported in places where the strings apply tension. Holes are designed in the curved side to prevent the plate from cracking due to thermal stress after it is poured and cooled, and this design allows sound to rise from the soundboard too. The scale engineer first sketches a proposed plate, draws it to scale, and makes a wood pattern; this design is later used for manufacture. The Constructing Method Flexion the rim of the case 1 Steinway's method of rim submission is still used and is the first step in assembling the grand piano. Layers of long-fiber maple wood are glued together and bent in a metal press to form a continuous rim; both the inner and outer rim are made this way. Up to 22 layers form each piano rim, and the layers may be up to 25 ft (7.62 m) long. Resin glue is applied by machine, then the layers are carried to the press where they are shaped. The rims are stored in braces to keep them from changing shape. They are seasoned in controlled temperature and humidity conditions until the wood meets a specific moisture content where it will hold its contour. The bent inner rim is then fitted with other wood components, including the cross block, the pinblock, the cross braces, the keybed, and the back bottom. These are glued and doweled in place. 2 The cabinet is finished to improve sound properties as well as for appearance. The cabinet is sanded so stain is absorbed properly, wood is bleached to equalize appearance of the veneer, pre staining and staining are done next, wood fillers (sometimes with a washcoat) are added, and a first coat of sealer or lacquer is applied. The surface is sanded again, special glazes (for antiquing or other effects) are added followed by two more coats of lacquer, sanding is done again, special trims are added, and two final coats of lacquer are used. The cabinet is dried for up to 21 days before it is hand-rubbed to its final finish. Make the structural element 3 The wood components of the piano (collectively called the framework)—the pinblock and the cast iron plate—are the parts of the piano that support the tension of the strings. Braces are made of select spruce, and the pinblock or wrestplank is constructed of bonded layers of rock maple. The pinblock is quarter-sawn or rotary cut to maximize the grain structure's grip on the tuning pins. The laminated layers are also glued at different angles to each other so that the pins are surrounded with end grain wood. The pinblock has one hole per string, or up to 240 holes, drilled in it. 4 The cast iron plate is made in a piano plate foundry. Match-plates are made of metal from the wood pattern designed by the engineer with top and bottom pieces to match. Sand molds are made from the match-plates, and these are used to cast the plate. Molten iron is poured through the molds and allowed to harden during the founding process (a controlled cooling process) to produce a plate weighing about 600 lb (272.4 kg). After the plate is cooled and removed from the molds, sand is blasted off the plate with steel grit. The plate is transported on overhead conveyors to a drill room where holes are drilled for the tuning pins, not bolts, bolts to the frame, and hitch pins. The hitch pins are inserted next; then the casting imperfections are removed from the plate by grinding and drilling. Oils are also removed. The plate is hand-sanded and rubbed, primed, and painted. 5 The cast iron plate is suspended above its piano during the process of fitting. The plate will be lowered and raised in and out of the piano several times as the pinblock, seal against the rim, and the soundboard and bridges are fitted. Making the soundboard 6 The soundboard is a thin panel of spruce that underlies the strings and the cast iron plate and rests on the rim braces. Its parts are the board itself, supporting ribs on the underside of the board, and the two bridges over which the strings are stretched. The soundboard is made of spruce that is 0.25-0.375 in (0.635-0.95 cm) thick; it acts as a natural resonator, is strong for its weight, and can be vibrated by the strings because of its lightness. Spruce is air dried then kiln dried to a specific moisture content. It is then cut into strips that are 2-5 in (5.08-12.7 cm) wide, the edges are glued, and the strips are pressed together and dried. A pattern is superimposed, and the soundboard is trimmed to grand piano size. 7 The soundboard is curved to produce the right sound. The curve is called a crown that arches upward toward the strings. The arch is made by fitting ribs of lightweight spruce or sugar pine wood to the underside of the board. The ribs are carefully cut from patterns, then fitted and glued to the sound-board using a rib press that accurately positions the ribs, then forces the board into the proper curvature. The ribs are cut along the wood's lengthwise grain and fitted at right angles to the lengthwise grain of the sound-board, so that vibrations are evenly transmitted. The ends of the ribs are feathered, then fitted into notches in the framework of the piano that will exactly support the arch of the crown; the piano makers use special patterns to guide these cuts in the frame. 8 The two soundboard bridges transfer the vibrations of the strings along their lengths to the soundboard. The long bridge is crossed by treble strings, and the bass strings that fan across the trebles cross the short bridge. The bridges are complicated because they must parallel the grain of the soundboard closely, curve with the crown, and support the strings, which exert a down-bearing pressure on the bridges and therefore on the soundboard. This pressure must be supported by the strength of the bridges and the arch of the crown, or the tone of the strings will drop. The bridges are made of solid blocks of wood or of laminated wood. Hard maple is used in American-made pianos, and falcon wood (beech) is used in Europe. Laminated bridges must be placed with laminations perpendicular to the soundboard or the glue layers have a damping effect. The bridges are glued to the soundboard and also fastened to it with wood screws capped by soundboard buttons made of wood that act like washers and keep the screws from grinding into the board. The bridges are notched on both sides where each string crosses, so the string strikes a small part of the bridge and can vibrate easily. Pins are inserted in the bridge, and strings are threaded between the pins. All modern musicians face a problem however. Due to the large evolution of the piano, the compositions of greats like Mozart and Chopin are no longer meant for these instruments. The instruments that these composers used no longer exist. So a long and arduous task of interpretation is required before they can be played on the modern pianos. Stringing and tuning 9 Piano string is made in specialized mills and consists of carbon steel wire. The bass strings are also wrapped with copper windings in a process called loading the strings. The windings add weight and thickness to the steel core strings so they vibrate more slowly and can be made to lengths that fit a piano of practical size; without loading, bass strings would have to be 30 ft (9.14 m) long to produce their sounds. Treble strings are short, are not wound with copper, but are grouped in threes to make one tone. Scale sticks are used as standards for each string, acting as a gauge of each kind of wire and determining how many sizes of string are needed; up to 17 different diameters of wire may be used to string one piano. Piano strings require special care and handling because they lie straight after they are formed, cut, and loaded and are never wound on rolls. After the strings are strung, they are held in place near the tuning pins by metal bars and special brass studs called agrafes. Other bars position the strings properly near the hitch pins. 10 Tuning pins are made from steel wire. The wire is cut to the proper length, the ends are shaped with a die, and the pins are loaded in a tumbler where rough edges are smoothed away. The tumbler empties them into a press where swags that fit tuning hammers are formed at the tops of the pins. Holes for the strings are drilled into the swaged ends of the pins, the pins are cleaned of metal chips and oil, and nickel-plating is applied to the pins to keep them from rusting. The pins are threaded to turn easily during tuning, then they are subjected to controlled heating called blueing, which oxidizes the outer surface of the threads of the pins (where the nickel plating was removed during threading) so the pins will grip the wood in the pinblock. Special machines insert several pins at a time through the holes in the cast iron plate and into the pinblock where they are fitted in place by hand. Manufacturing the keyboard and action 11 Keyboards, key and action frames, and actions are made by specialty manufacturers. The keys balance and pivot on a set of either two or three rails that are covered with felt to prevent noise. Guide pins for each key are inserted in the front or head rail and the middle or balance rail. The keys themselves are made of lightweight wood that is cut to size and dried in kilns. The keys are covered with black or white plastic, although in the past ivory and ebony were used. The plastic key covers are molded to cover a group of keys that are later cut individually. Holes are drilled on the undersides to fit the guide pins. Capstan screws are mounted on the back edges of the keyboard extending inside the piano; the action will be seated on these. The keys are now cut into 88 individuals, which are sanded and polished on the sides. The black keys are also stained black before the black caps are glued on. The keys are rematched to the keyframe, punchings resembling washers are placed over the guide pins, and the keys are placed on them. 12 The voice of the piano depends on the quality of the hammers. Many materials from elkskin to rubber have been used over the history of the piano, but today, hammers are covered with premium wool felt of precision-graduated density. The felt is made by specialists who begin with select wool that is carded, combed, folded, and compressed into felt in tapered strips. The thinnest felt is used for the treble hammers, while thick felt is used for the bass. The core of each hammerhead is a wood molding, and an underfelt and top felt are bonded in place with resin to cover the molding. The hammerheads are made in long strips of the same size then sliced into individual hammerheads by hand or automation. The complete set of hammers is installed in the piano. The sound of the piano is adjusted by a specially trained tuner called a voicer. The key actions must respond with the same resistance. The felt hammers are modified with a sticker or needler that retextures the hammerheads and changes the sound. 13 The final parts are added, including the pedals and their strapwork, the fall-board or key cover, the music rack, the hinges and top lid, the topstick that supports the raised lid, and many other details. All parts are carefully made so they fit tightly and do not rattle or otherwise affect the sound of the instrument. Quality Maintain Pianos would not exist without quality control in all destiny of production because the instruments are too sensitive and dependent on the interaction of many parts and materials. For example, quality begins with the scale engineer's design. Metallurgists check the metal content of the iron plate; chemical analyses are made of the other contents, including carbon, sulfur, phosphorus, and manganese. Temperature is also critical; the molten iron is 2,750°F (1,510°C), and founding or hardening temperatures are also carefully monitored. String is similarly controlled and tested during manufacture for elasticity, resiliency, and tensile strength. The Posterior The method of piano manufacturing has remained essentially the same for a century, but scale engineers are always seeking new methods. Vacuum casting has recently been used to produce cast iron plates with smooth finishes requiring no grinding. Enjoy This.. Sucker for pain Lil wayne piano cover music