The Nothing Mirror

The Universe Is Imploding. By God it is beautiful.

[thenothingmirror]

Eight Day: The Bells All Chimed In Unison As The Lid Closed And The One Time When The Lines All Drew Arrows and We Danced

If you listen closely you can hear it coming. A sound like upturning soil. You are not totally sure why you ran. Some days running just feels like the appropriate thing to do. This was one of those He is a beast and a scoundrel and there is naught I can do to stop him. Please for your own sake leave. He is a danger. days. Maybe you wanted to get to the Billowing Black Smoke vendor before he closed so you wouldn't have to cook dinner. Maybe you wanted to see if you could outrun your own shadow. Maybe you felt the need to practice. Either way you push your body as hard as you can. Your lungs scream for air, your calves scream in pain and you just scream.I move the coal to my filing cabinet (I place it under "R" for raw materials. I am anything if organized.) Throw on my coat and begin to walk. To where I am unsure, I just feel compelled to walk. On my way out of my apartment I can hear my neighbors radio playing loudly. As a commercial for industrial solvents ends I hear a voice come on giving the weather for the day. My voice. I wish I could say that hearing my own voice recite words I have never said over the radio was a surreal experience but at this point it just might be the most normal part of my life now. I walk and I listen. I hope I hear more. I am afraid I will hear more. My walk leads me to a cemetery. I grab a wayward shovel as I enter. I lead myself to the freshest plot I can find. As she lay in her grave the old woman laughed to herself. She saw the humorous coincidence that a plot can mean both a section of land, as in a grave plot, and to devise a scheme.Your voice gave out some time ago. You now run with your mouth silently gaping. You run past buildings. Past gates. Past gravestone. You run until you see a rather handsome man, in a rather old coat. Digging. You can still hear the upturning soil. And it is the realest thing you have ever heard.

[thenothingmirror]

he came home he came home he came home he came home ohgodno he came home he came home he came home

[thenothingmirror]

Seventh Day: We All Choked Back the Tears That We Have Shed Over A Prolonged Period Of Time And The Moment When All The Clocks Stopped And There Was A Brief Silence.

If you listen closely you can hear it. A sound like exploding cotton. You carefully fold the blanket and place it at the foot of your bed. You meander back out to the living room, unsure of what to do with yourself. You are aware should do something. We all need to do something but a this particular juncture in  time your something is quite unclear. Your hand quietly whispers that it would be wise to go to work. You solemnly agree.  It isn't that you I can not stop him but I can warn you. He does nothing but lie. Listen to  his story but do not trust him. He only cares for himself don't like your job, you just feel your time is better spent today. I  wake up in my own bed,  in my own home. My new old coat draped over my chair, my hat nailed to my floor, and  a note etched into a rather large lump of coal waiting for me on my bathroom sink. A note from Lilith. She tells me that I  am to quickly become God of a new world. A world built of fear, anger, disgust, and online music reviews. A world that needs a God. But I will not be a good God she goes on to inform me. I  will be a God of vengeance and spite. I will be feared and reviled. I will become a monster. She tells me to await her return. She tells me to break all of my mirrors. Or at least that is the best I  can make make out of her message, all she did was draw a kitty in a bow tie on the coal but I think I got the gist of it. Your commute to work was quicker than normal, traffic was light. You stand of the lip of the chasm and begin your blood curdling screams. Screams so primal and horrified that any mortal man would be reduced to a quivering,  babbling shell of his formal self upon hearing you. You think to yourself about your 4 years in  liberal arts college and how all it has gotten you is this mundane job. But it puts food on the table and something similar to a roof over your head so you can't really complain. She quickly came to realize that coffins are far too quiet. You scream your last scream and cough up the last bits of your esophagus. Another uneventful day at the office. You begin  your trip home but in the distance you can see see billowing, thick black smoke. You know this bodes poorly. You begin to run. Even in  your break neck sprint  you can still hear the exploding cotton. And it is so damn loud.

[thenothingmirror]

We live. and we have many things to tell you

[thenothingmirror]

ERROR: USER NOT FOUND

The story will continue. Your unreliable narrator will continue to babble. I can not stop him.But please remember; he is only as strong as you let him be. That is all for now. I feel him coming. He will be here soon and he brings with him the next part of the story. Please be careful.

[thenothingmirror]

You were beautiful. I hope you see this.

[thenothingmirror]

All I ever wanted is everything you didn’t. It created living poetry with no rhyme scheme.

[thenothingmirror]

There is nothing here. There never was...

[thenothingmirror]

The house calls to you. You will listen. I am sorry. You have no choice. Good Luck.

[thenothingmirror]

Sixth Day: The Short Time In Which We All Wished For An Answer And The Moment We Knew The Door Would Ignore US

If you listen closely you can hear it, a sound like a pungent odor.  The quiet child has been hammering, and screeching and speaking in tongues for a time now. You say for a time because you can no longer identify the passage of said time. It could have been moments, it could have been micro moments, it could have been eons...you really just cant tell. Though if the episode of Top Chef you are watching is any indication it has been roughly 22 minutes. You just simply can not tell. From your bedroom you finally hear otherworldly howl then silence. The quiet child slinks into the living room and presents you with a new box. Smaller this time, made of a dark heavy wood. No hinges to be seen. No latch. It appears as if the quiet child build the box as solid as possible for you. You appreciate this. The top of the box is carved with what appears to be a map of a solar system. Not your solar system but another in in a far off place. One with a single sun and lacking any black holes or white holes or that one grey hole. You take the box and thank the quiet child. The quiet child returns to their place behind your bedroom door and you are sure this time you hear the quiet child give a light chuckle as they settle into place. You place the box at the very back of your closet behind your engineer shirts and Sunday dresses that should only be worn on Tuesdays. The rain is letting up and you decide it is time to eat. You open your larder to get the bread. The badger is napping by the honey. A nap sounds nice actually. Tax evasion or not that badger has some good ideas. I walk through the field of clover. The plants rest thick under my feet like carpet. The snow is coming down heavy now. It is hard to see more than a few feet in front of me but I know she is close. I just know she is. Through the snow I can see on splash of color, like a match head about to be struck, like the first drop of blood after a pin prick, like...the last few embers of a funeral pyre. Lilith. I charge headlong through the snow until I can see those beautiful tar black eyes. She reaches out to embrace me and I fell into her arms. She grips me tight and I hold her even tighter, afraid that any moment she may dissolve again. I whisper in her that I have so many questions. She replies that she has many for me as well. But now is not the time for them. She pulls my head into hers and our lips meet. Everything fades to a softer shade of black and I feel safe. You eat your food, drink your beverage and reflect back on the rather peculiar day you have been having.  You retreat to your bedroom for that nap. The quiet child is behind your door still and you know with it it there you can sleep in peace. The quiet child makes you feel safe. A guardian angel? A caring demon? A sleeper agent from some bizarre government experiment? You could care less, it makes you feel safe and in this world that is all that really matters. Loud and quiet. Discovery and tears. Ritual and burial. The old lady thought it was an escape. It was only the beginning.  You awake from your nap covered with a blanket you do not recognize sewn from very familiar fabric.  A patchwork blanket made from your old work pants and favorite t-shirts. Bits of cloth from your days as a boy scout, swaths of fabric from your favorite skirt that finally wore through. Someone has been here. Someone close to you. You should be scared. You are not. You are com DO NOT LISTEN TO HIM! He is an unreliable narrator. He only knows  part of his own story. He can only offer half truths. You deserve so much more than that. The story is important, your narrator is a fool. Do with that what you will. forted by it. If someone was going to harm you they could have in your sleep. Instead they left you a relic of yourself patched together with care. Besides if someone dangerous were around the quiet child would never let them close to you...would it? You pull the blanket up to your face and inhale deeply. It smells like a pencil. You can still hear the pungent odor. Stagnant and retreating.

[thenothingmirror]

unreliable narrator

[thenothingmirror]

We shall all see soon. No time like now. No time like then

[thenothingmirror]

Under wing, Under weather, Broken quill, Inky feather

[thenothingmirror]

I see you watching. Come closer. We can watch together

[thenothingmirror]

Fifth Day: Wind Up Toys March Down the Stairs And A Serpent Whispers Into the Wind

If you listen closely you can hear it. A sound like a misplaced echo. As the tape ends you can hear the light plinking of rain on your window. The rain drops cast shadows on your wall, your wall is not impressed. You turn the tape’s case over and over in your hands.  Each time you hope the rotation will change the word on the front but every time it is the same. Your own name written in your own hand writing. The badger in your larder suggests it might be for the best to get rid of the tape. Nothing good can come from it. Tax evasion or not, that badger has some good ideas. That is my voice. The narrator on the tape is me. I remove my head phones and eject the tape. The A side is totally non-descript. The B side has a small bit of faded masking tape on it. In soft delicate script the word “Clovers” is written. Who is Lilith? Why did she have a tape with my voice on it? On a radio broadcast that don't remember doing? I begin to wander as I ponder these questions. Snow begins to gently fall around me. A warm, dry snow...exactly what I would expect from a cracked sky. I abandon the sidewalks and begin walking through the park. The snow has sent the children home for the day and I am alone. And then I smell it....pencil shavings. I begin to run toward the smell. Through play grounds and picnic areas, the smell is getting stronger and stronger. Past the lake. Next to the gazebo. Up the Hill.  As I crest the hill the smell of wood and graphite is almost unbearable. I have to find her. Have to find this Lilith girl. I need answers. From the top of the hill I see it...a field of clover. After many futile attempts to destroy the tape you stop to catch your breath. The hammer did nothing, the garbage disposal jammed, the foul beast living under your bed spit it back out, and your car drifted away on a gentle breeze as you approached it with the tape. You ask the badger if he wants to take the tape. He hisses quietly and hides behind the pickled eggs. At the end of your rope you turn to your final option, the last person you ever wanted to ask for help...the quiet child. The old lady sits in silence once the tape ends. A cold sweat forms on her brow. She knows what all of this means. She knew this day would come. She has prepared for this and still she is not ready. She ambles over to an old steamer trunk resting against the wall. She opens it and removes a small grease stained bundle of cloth. Tears stream from her eyes as she gets comfortable at her desk chair again. The greasy bundle is set on the desk as the old woman picks up her quill and begins to write. The ink is now a cold steel blue and flows thick and slow. She fills page after page with broken English and  rough diagrams for broken machines. Her life story. The last page is full. She puts the quill down. She opens the greasy bundle. She places the gun to her temple. She pulls the trigger. You go to your bedroom. The quiet child has been standing behind your door facing the wall since he built you the first box. You approach him and carefully touch his shoulder. His head slowly rotates around and his eyes meet yours. They are distant and alert. You ask him if he will build you a new box. The quiet child's body rotates around under his head. You understand his question, he has no need for words. You tell him you need a box to hold a cassette tape. A box to keep it away from you. A box to keep you a safe. The child flashes a smile composed of broken teeth and a forked tongue. He reaches for the tape. As he builds your box you go back out to your living room. The rain is coming down harder. It beats your window and in its cadence you can still hear  the misplaced echo. Pulsing, deadly and dangerously close.  

[thenothingmirror]

She was everything I ever dreamed. A far off place, a distant sound, a sun colliding with a moon. She was perfect. She was a nightmare.

[thenothingmirror]

We peel back the layers. We see what is inside. We are afraid. It was quite human. So what are we?