Luminescence Through The Eye Of A Needle
Braxton Uribe
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional hexagon. I open my mouth to speak, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric.” My tongue started to fain excitement for this atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the four step on the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional trapezoid. I open my mouth to speak, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric.” My tongue started to fain excitement for this atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional rhombus. I open my mouth to speak, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievely said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric.” My tongue started to fain excitement for this atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked it’s way to the second step of the second staircase), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly and fleetingly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. I blinked and the moment had passed. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional balbis. I open my mouth to speak, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric.” My tongue started to fain excitement for this atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a racquetball, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly and fleetingly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. I blinked and the moment had passed. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional annulus. I open my mouth to speak, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though surprisingly conversant.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock looked only mildly agitated. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a racquetball, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head and the feeling passed. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional salinon. I open my mouth to speak, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though surprisingly conversant. In a peculiar way, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. “Really? Was it over in the cafe on Vine?”, she asked. “I don’t think so,” I said still in a minor stupor. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock contracted cholera. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a racquetball, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head and the feeling passed. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional triquetra. I open my mouth to speak, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though surprisingly conversant. In a peculiar way, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. “Really? Was it over in the cafe on Vine?”, she asked. “I don’t think so,” I said still in a minor stupor. “I have an inexplicable feeling that it was here, with you, like this is.”
“Have you been sniffing the Seychellois mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock looked like it wanted to deliver a speech in front of the Liberian embassy. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a racquetball, a small globe, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I couldn’t help but feel as if I had seen those clouds before. Even the bay window was recognizable now. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional magatama. I open my mouth to speak about this potential coincidence, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, and I had forgotten everything I was previous concerned about.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though surprisingly conversant. In a peculiar way, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. “Really? Was it over in the cafe on Vine?”, she asked. “I don’t think so,” I said still in a minor stupor. “I have an inexplicable feeling that it was here, with you, like this is. If I’m being honest, this is the second time today I’ve had this feeling.”
“What? I’ve only offered you tea once today.”
“Hardy har-har” I said sardonically. “It happened when I was walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? But more importantly...there were still two doors. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock looked somehow pleased with the whole affair. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a racquetball, a small globe, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I couldn’t help but feel as if I had seen those clouds before. Even the bay window was recognizable now. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a three dimensional enneagonal antiprism. I open my mouth to speak about this potential coincidence, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, and I had forgotten everything I was previous concerned about.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though surprisingly conversant. In a peculiar way, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. “Really? Was it over in the cafe on Vine?”, she asked. “I don’t think so,” I said still in a minor stupor. “I have an inexplicable feeling that it was here, with you, like this is. If I’m being honest, this is the second time today I’ve had this feeling.”
“What? I’ve only offered you tea once today.”
“Hardy har-har” I said sardonically. “It happened when I was walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind until you started talking. Even now, the beginning of this oration seems wonted in retrospect.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large saxophone up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.” She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? But more importantly...there were still two doors. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock appeared to be full of adrenaline. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a racquetball, a small globe, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I couldn’t help but feel as if I had seen those clouds before. Even the bay window was recognizable now. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a great ditrigonal dodecicosidodecahedron. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, and I had forgotten everything I was previous concerned about.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Would you like a glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract for your trouble?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful”, I gleefully and relievedly said. “Are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Oh my no. Tea is usually too aggressive for my pallet. I preferred more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences. Sometimes I drink tea and can still taste it 58 hours later.”
“Wow.” I said with such disdain, before I composed myself mentally. “I’m usually one that can’t have tea that is strong enough. I usually let it stoop for a fortnight.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though surprisingly conversant. In a peculiar way, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. “Really? Was it over in the cafe on Vine?”, she asked. “I don’t think so,” I said still in a minor stupor. “I have an inexplicable feeling that it was here, with you, like this is. If I’m being honest, this is the second time today I’ve had this feeling.”
“What? I’ve only offered you tea once today.”
“Hardy har-har” I said sardonically. “It happened when I was walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind until you started talking. Even now, the beginning of this oration seems wonted in retrospect.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large front half of a horse costume up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?“, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, the kitchen door…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.” She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. But more importantly...there were still two doors. Could I make this decision? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock continued to read ‘De La Vingt-Cinquième Heure à L’heure Eternelle’ unperturbed. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a lamp, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a racquetball, a small globe, a zaffre handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a great ditrigonal dodecacronic hexecontahedron. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.”
“What do you mean?“
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?“ She quipped. ”Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...“, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, ”Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large 3-D rendition of David Teniers the Younger’s ‘The Archduke Leopold Wilhelm In His Gallery In Brussels’ up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.“
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, the kitchen door…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.“
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea. “
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.“
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?“ “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?“ I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, ”Or a cup of chamomile tea?“
”Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.“
”Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.“
”Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.“ My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. ”Hmm...“ she said ponderously. ”It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?“
”Absolutely. Just down here?“, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
”No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.“
”Got it.“
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
”What was that?“ she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock found a small piece of debris to use as a hat. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a metal vice, an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a small globe, a zaffre handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a catenoid surface. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
”Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit“
I chuckled hushly, before saying: ”Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.“
“What do you mean?”
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.“
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large bust of Francis Mallmann up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?“, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, this drizzle, the kitchen door…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea. “
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.“
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!“ she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?” “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.“
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?“ I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, ”Or a cup of chamomile tea?“
”Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It appears I’ve used the last of it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I started to lean tensely to one side and began to shiver. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), four boxes of 3/8th stainless steel hex bolts (which clanked down to the final step of the first staircase, the fifth step of the second staircase, the third step of the third staircase, and the third landing, respectively), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock was too busy scheduling a croquet tournament to notice. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a small globe, a cricket bat, a zaffre handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a triply periodic minimal surface. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.”
“What do you mean?“
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large carving of treble clef made of ivory up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, this drizzle, finding this lasso behind my oven, the kitchen door…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea.”
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?” “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
“Wait a minute…let me guess…you’ve used the last of it?”
She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It does appear I’ve used the last of it! You are really good at remembering things that happen in illusory alternatives of reality!” I let out a muffled chortle and spoke, “Well thanks. I have many skill sets that don’t manifest themselves in this particular corporeality.”
“Oh really? That probably never comes in handy.”
“Not really, no. I often find myself in this current timeline.” She laughed heartily and almost tripped over her antigriddle.
“Whoa! There’s that maladroitness again…” We both giggled coquettishly. “Anyway, do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall for that tea?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I started to lean tensely to one side and began to shiver. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), four boxes of 3/8th stainless steel hex bolts (which clanked down to the final step of the first staircase, the fifth step of the second staircase, the third step of the third staircase, and the third landing, respectively), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), an empty shopping bag (which rolled nervously around the main landing), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock just sat there pronouncing the words ‘longitudinal’ and ‘sempiternal’ incorrectly. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a small globe, a deck of playing cards, an ochre handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained, stronger than ever. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a truncated triapeirogonal tiling. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: ”Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.“
“What do you mean?”
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large velvet waterbed up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, leaving this milk out, finding this lasso behind my oven, the kitchen door…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea.”
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?” “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
“Wait a minute…let me guess…you’ve used the last of it?“
She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It does appear I’ve used the last of it! You are really good at remembering things that happen in illusory alternatives of reality!” I let out a muffled chortle and spoke, “Well thanks. I have many skill sets that don’t manifest themselves in this particular corporeality.”
“Oh really? That probably never comes in handy.”
“Not really, no. I often find myself in this current timeline.” She laughed heartily and almost tripped over her copy of the original script of ‘Chrysanthemums in Mountains’.
“Whoa! There’s that maladroitness again…” We both giggled coquettishly. “Anyway, do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall for that tea?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? Maybe I should just swallow my pride and call for assistance? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I started to lean tensely to one side and began to shiver. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), four boxes of 3/8th stainless steel hex bolts (which clanked down to the final step of the first staircase, the fifth step of the second staircase, the third step of the third staircase, and the third landing, respectively), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a miniature model of the space shuttle Atlantis (which landed on the edge of the second step where it broke apart and scattered throughout the stairwell), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), an empty shopping bag (which rolled nervously around the main landing), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock assumed it was at the beach and tried swimming away. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported an antique plate, a turquoise stone, a small globe, a deck of playing cards, a racquetball racquet, an ochre handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained, stronger than ever. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a Gyrate bidiminished rhombicosidodecahedron. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large cut out of Gunner Olsson dressed as a monk pretending to be the MGM lion up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, leaving this milk out, finding this lasso behind my oven, finding a hobo orgy in my bathroom this morning…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea.”
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?” “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
“Wait a minute…let me guess…you’ve used the last of it?”
She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It does appear I’ve used the last of it! You are really good at remembering things that happen in illusory alternatives of reality!” I let out a muffled chortle and spoke, “Well thanks. I have many skill sets that don’t manifest themselves in this particular corporeality.”
“Oh really? That probably never comes in handy.”
“Not really, no. I often find myself in this current timeline.” She laughed heartily and almost tripped over her 1980s atlas of sub-Saharan Africa.
“Whoa! There’s that maladroitness again…” We both giggled coquettishly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t mind hearing more about your preternatural skills.”
“Well, you’re in luck. One talent I have that is functional in this universe is my ability to discuss things that aren’t actually a part of it.” She smiled and spoke tenderly, “Well let me just put the kettle on and we can get to it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall for that tea?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? Maybe I should just swallow my pride and call for assistance? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I started to lean tensely to one side and began to shiver. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I could hear footsteps swiftly approaching. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), four boxes of 3/8th stainless steel hex bolts (which clanked down to the final step of the first staircase, the fifth step of the second staircase, the third step of the third staircase, and the third landing, respectively), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a miniature model of the space shuttle Atlantis (which landed on the edge of the second step where it broke apart and scattered throughout the stairwell), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), an empty shopping bag (which rolled nervously around the main landing), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an Italian pastry (which splatted deftly before sliding down to the seventh step), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock tried to gain sentience so it could always remember this potentially life altering experience. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported an antique plate, a jade stone, a small globe, a deck of playing cards, a racquetball racquet, a cerulean handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained, stronger than ever. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in 41 sided regular golyhedron. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large post-modern interpretation of the capture of Michilimackinac Island up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, thinking about how to kill wasps, finding this lasso behind my oven, listening to an owl eat a field mouse, finding a hobo orgy in my bathroom this morning…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. It’s a very odd feeling. It almost feels like I’m reading a script of our encounter.”
“Really? So…what am I going to say next?”
“Endoplasmic reticulum”
“That seems out of character for me, and there is none of that in the house.”
“Damn…well…I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea.”
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?” “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?“ I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
“Wait a minute…let me guess…you’ve used the last of it?”
She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It does appear I’ve used the last of it! You are really good at remembering things that happen in illusory alternatives of reality!” I let out a muffled chortle and spoke, “Well thanks. I have many skill sets that don’t manifest themselves in this particular corporeality.”
“Oh really? That probably never comes in handy.”
“Not really, no. I often find myself in this current timeline.” She laughed heartily and almost tripped over her pile of broken Cuisinarts.
“Whoa! There’s that maladroitness again…” We both giggled coquettishly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t mind hearing more about your preternatural skills.”
“Well, you’re in luck. One talent I have that is functional in this universe is my ability to discuss things that aren’t actually a part of it.” She smiled and spoke tenderly, “Well let me just put the kettle on and we can get to it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall for that tea?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? Maybe I should just swallow my pride and call for assistance? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I started to lean tensely to one side and began to shiver. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I could hear footsteps swiftly approaching. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), four boxes of 3/8th stainless steel hex bolts (which clanked down to the final step of the first staircase, the fifth step of the second staircase, the third step of the third staircase, and the third landing, respectively), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a miniature model of the space shuttle Atlantis (which landed on the edge of the second step where it broke apart and scattered throughout the stairwell), a set of two pens with erasable ink (which skittered to the fourth step), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), an empty shopping bag (which rolled nervously around the main landing), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an Italian pastry (which splatted deftly before sliding down to the seventh step), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock immediately converted to Zoroastrianism to save itself. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported an antique plate, a jade stone, a small globe, a golf ball, an ochre handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained, stronger than ever. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in an icosahedron snub octahedron. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a very large fake mustache up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, finding this lasso behind my oven, listening to an owl eat a field mouse, dancing at the jewish deli…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. It’s a very odd feeling. It almost feels like I’m reading a script of our encounter.”
“Really? So…what am I going to say next?”
“Vicissitudes mundane and glorious.”
“That seems out of character for me, and there is none of that in the house.”
“Damn…well…I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea.”
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?” “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
“Wait a minute…let me guess…you’ve used the last of it?”
She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It does appear I’ve used the last of it! You are really good at remembering things that happen in illusory alternatives of reality!” I let out a muffled chortle and spoke, “Well thanks. I have many skill sets that don’t manifest themselves in this particular corporeality.”
“Oh really? That probably never comes in handy.”
“Not really, no. I often find myself in this current timeline.” She laughed heartily and almost tripped over her physical representation of the importance of the oxford comma.
“Whoa! There’s that maladroitness again…“ We both giggled coquettishly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t mind hearing more about your preternatural skills.”
“Well, you’re in luck. One talent I have that is functional in this universe is my ability to discuss things that aren’t actually a part of it.” She smiled and spoke tenderly, “Well let me just put the kettle on and we can get to it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall for that tea?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? Maybe I should just swallow my pride and call for assistance? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I started to lean tensely to one side and began to shiver. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I could hear footsteps swiftly approaching. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), four boxes of 3/8th stainless steel hex bolts (which clanked down to the final step of the first staircase, the fifth step of the second staircase, the third step of the third staircase, and the third landing, respectively), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), an antique boombox (which tumbled to the second landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a miniature model of the space shuttle Atlantis (which landed on the edge of the second step where it broke apart and scattered throughout the stairwell), a set of two pens with erasable ink (which skittered to the fourth step), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), an empty shopping bag (which rolled nervously around the main landing), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an Italian pastry (which splatted deftly before sliding down to the seventh step), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock was just upset that it would miss it’s reservations at The Yar. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported an antique plate, a pale taupe stone, a small globe, a plastic wheel, an ochre handkerchief, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained, stronger than ever. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a vertex-transitive gyrated tetrahedral-octahedral honeycomb. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: “Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large Hispanic man wrapped in Egyptian cotton bed sheets up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, the kitchen door, peeing irregularly, dancing at the abandoned mosque…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. It’s a very odd feeling. It almost feels like I’m reading a script of our encounter.”
“Really? So…what am I going to say next?”
Taking a deep breath, “You are the creator of all your torments. All despair and depression you feel is a result of your own independent actions or inactions and the consequences thereof. The regrets you harbor will anchor you in a vast field of hopelessness and longing whose pull will only grow stronger as time passes. You will yearn for happiness futilely and thus will never experience pure contentment or lasting joy. You will never escape your own worthlessness and eventually drown in it. One day your meaningless existence will end and you will spend eternity as nothingness in a state of isolation from the ongoings of the universe, on the small and large scale, where nothing occurs because time, space, and matter have ceased to have any meaning. You will lie in this place unencumbered by physical phenomenon even after all traces of any universe or dimension are terminated. Until your demise you will feel great angst and anxiety over your death, the afterlife, and your transition to it, especially as you examine your insignificant unremarkable life.”
“That seems out of character for me, and is slightly impertinent.”
“Damn…well…I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea.”
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?“ “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
“Wait a minute…let me guess…you’ve used the last of it?”
She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It does appear I’ve used the last of it! You are really good at remembering things that happen in illusory alternatives of reality!” I let out a muffled chortle and spoke, “Well thanks. I have many skill sets that don’t manifest themselves in this particular corporeality.”
“Oh really? That probably never comes in handy.”
“Not really, no. I often find myself in this current timeline.” She laughed heartily and almost tripped over her hampers of contraceptives.
“Whoa! There’s that maladroitness again…” We both giggled coquettishly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t mind hearing more about your preternatural skills.”
“Well, you’re in luck. One talent I have that is functional in this universe is my ability to discuss things that aren’t actually a part of it.” She smiled and spoke tenderly, “Well let me just put the kettle on and we can get to it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall for that tea?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? Maybe I should just swallow my pride and call for assistance? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I started to lean tensely to one side and began to shiver. I started to retreat. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
“What was that?” she asked puzzled from the kitchen. I could hear footsteps swiftly approaching. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. With great haste, I turned to my left and flung open the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...
I opened the door. The handle was slightly wet with the afternoon’s habitual moderate drizzle. The building was tall and smelt of strawberries. I helped a woman carry a bag up a flight of stairs. When we got to the top she spilled the contents and they all rolled back down the four flights of stairs. There were carrots (which rolled to the second landing), AAA batteries (which couldn’t roll as far), four boxes of 3/8th stainless steel hex bolts (which clanked down to the final step of the first staircase, the fifth step of the second staircase, the third step of the third staircase, and the third landing, respectively), a bowling bag (which flopped its way to the first landing), an antique boombox (which tumbled to the second landing), a tuba mouthpiece (which clanked its way to the second step of the second staircase), a waffle iron (which hit hard, sprung open, and slid down to the first landing), a miniature model of the space shuttle Atlantis (which landed on the edge of the second step where it broke apart and scattered throughout the stairwell), a set of two pens with erasable ink (which skittered to the fourth step), a left wing political magazine (which flopped at her feet), a box of crayons, 64 count (which fell to the first landing before the box broke up and sent a kaleidoscope of colors cascading down the rest of the stairway), oranges (which made it to the bottom of the stairwell), a tube of hand moisturizer (which trundled down to the fourth step of the second staircase), canned oysters (which reached floor one), a hair dryer (which fell to the second step of the third staircase), a jar of picked pigs feet (which made it to the fourth step of the second staircase before shattering into 108 pieces), a box of graham crackers (which fell to the bottom step of the first staircase), an empty shopping bag (which rolled nervously around the main landing), a large stone (which dented the floor), two loose tube socks (which gently glid to the edge of the top step), a box of condoms (which made it to the first landing), a potted geranium (which rolled surprising well to the third landing), a Wartenberg wheel (which pirouetted down five steps), an Italian pastry (which splatted deftly before sliding down to the seventh step), an overly large fork (which bounced gently to the third step), and a three tiered upsidedown pineapple mousse cake (which fell to the eighth step of the first set of stairs). She began to cry and I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens blared momentarily and then Mr. Atwater had a stroke.
After the commotion with the fire brigade and the ambulance, I helped the woman pick up her victuals and sundries. Most of them were trodden on quite severely. The oranges bespattered the walls, carpets, and railings, while the pineapple mousse cake was barely recognizable as foodstuff. The geraniums were certain not to survive, but the rock let out a death-rattle that would curdle roastbeef. Luckily most of the glass shards had distributed themselves into the knees, faces, feet, and legs of all the emergency workers, so the jar was of little concern to us. After corralling all of her materials, the woman composed herself and started to fumble for her keys. I suspected they were not trapped in a hyperbolic meridian, but I elected to say nothing. Eventually she found her keys and opened the door to her apartment. I walked inside and was ridiculed immediately for not wearing a hat. I sneezed and the clock struck 7:38PM.
I placed the bag of mangled goods on a burnt sienna end table, which also supported a tiffany lamp, an antique plate, a Jerusalem artichoke, a small globe, an ochre handkerchief, a croquet mallet, and a picture of two women on a beach in front of green water. I looked up to speak but the woman had dashed off into the kitchen. I moved slowly towards it. I could see out an undressed bay window. The drizzle had subsided in the interim and there was a quiet beauty over this semi-modern townscape. You could just see a distant lake and a vague outline of a rainbow. As I stared into the greyish blue firmament, I suddenly felt a pang of paramnesic confusion. Had I done this recently? It felt so familiar, yet still distant. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I had seen those clouds before. I was certain I wasn’t having an aneurysm. Even the bay window was recognizable. I almost fainted, but recovered my composure well. The sensation remained, stronger than ever. Anxiously, I turned again to see the kitchen door and swung it open with abandon. I nearly knocked over several cans of chicken perched on top of an archaic samovar, which were arranged in a Rhombitriapeirogonal tiling. I open my mouth to speak about this highly enigmatic circumstance, but words flowed from her luxury orifice first, however it still occupied my mind.
“Thank you for your assistance, and for not pointing out I’m a colossal maladroit”
I chuckled hushly, before saying: ”Oh no worries. And I wouldn’t characterize you like that. Sometimes one acts a-butterfingers. Although…I must say…I feel there is a strong sensation of repetition around the events of today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, walking through your parlor. I glanced out your bay window...it felt so routine, so normalized. As if I saw those exact objects outside your window several times before. I tried to disregard it, but I couldn’t get it to leave my mind. It’s such an overwhelming sensation I just had to mention it immediately.”
“Have you been sniffing the Scychellian mothballs?” She quipped. “Yeah, yeah...I know...I’ve never been in this apartment before...but still...”, I listfully said as I trailed off in reverie. She blinked heartily while talking, “Yeah...I think I’ve only seen you once in this building...one day near Christmas of last year. You were carrying a large microwave oven door hinge up to the fifth floor. But, since you mentioned it, parts of today have felt familiar to me as well.”
“Really? Like what?”, I inquired. “Oh, just driving around town, Mr. Atwater having a stroke, glass shards and crayon pieces spraying the stairwell, peeing irregularly, dancing at the abandoned mosque, nearly being buried alive…just normal stuff. Things I wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.”
“Hmm…some of that seems normal. It’s a very odd feeling. It almost feels like I’m reading a script of our encounter.”
“Really? So…what am I going to say next?”
“Boat is boot in German. Boot is Aufladung in German. Aufladung is grapefruits in English.”
“That seems out of character for me, I would never speak German to a jew.”
“Damn…well…I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but I can’t help thinking that just prior to this exercise of interrogative splendor, you were going to offer me a cup of flavored yeast extract and/or chamomile tea.”
“Wow! I was. You were very helpful and kind earlier with the whole grocery incident…it felt like that least I could do. And people don’t assume I have a wide supply of flavored yeast extracts. Maybe there is some validity to this déjà vu.”
“It is an eccentric consumption choice. Although you do prefer more muddled, unexpressive tones and essences.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed with seeming distain. “How do you know that?” “It’s this conversation. I recall that after you offered your beverages you revealed you find tea is usually too aggressive for your pallet.”
She smiled and spoke again, “You are too kind. Normally people don’t remember those details about me even when I tell them it first.” We smiled at each other nervously for four brief moments. She interrupted the silence with a clement and docile tone, “So would you like that glass of vanilla & rutabaga flavored yeast extract now?” I suppose my eyebrows gave away my true feelings on all yeast based products, for she quickly added, “Or a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Tea sound wonderful. Maybe it will help my head clear from these bewildering sensations.”
“Heh...well...hopefully you’ll find this one will do. It’s lavender and donkey flavored.”
“Oh...well, that is certainly esoteric...though again surprisingly conversant, I feel like I’ve almost have had this beverage before.” My brow wrinkled and then my tongue, almost autonomically, started to fain excitement for this pseudo atypical beverage. She moved to the back of the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
“Wait a minute…let me guess…you’ve used the last of it?”
She had a look of pixilation on her face. “Hmm...” she said ponderously. “It does appear I’ve used the last of it! You are really good at remembering things that happen in illusory alternatives of reality!“ I let out a muffled chortle and spoke, “Well thanks. I have many skill sets that don’t manifest themselves in this particular corporeality.”
“Oh really? That probably never comes in handy.”
“Not really, no. I often find myself in this current timeline.” She laughed heartily and almost tripped over her favorite pair of medieval chainmail pantyhose.
“Whoa! There’s that maladroitness again…“ We both giggled coquettishly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t mind hearing more about your preternatural skills.”
“Well, you’re in luck. One talent I have that is functional in this universe is my ability to discuss things that aren’t actually a part of it.” She smiled and spoke tenderly, “Well let me just put the kettle on and we can get to it. Do you mind checking in the pantry in the hall for that tea?”
“Absolutely. Just down here?”, I sheepishly asked with a point to the left, as I had no inclination of the concept of corridors.
“No, no...back where you entered...just to the right for about 16 paces.”
“Got it.”
I moved swiftly, ignoring the bay window and the hanging lizards tongues. I peered around the corner and saw a long narrow passageway. I suspected this was the very hall. I counted silently as I walked down its seemingly infinite length. At step 9, I saw a closed door to my right. At step 13 I saw an open door to my right. It was not a bathroom or a eugenics lab. At step 16 I was flanked by doors. I studied my conundrum. I recall she intimated the ‘right’, but this may have alluded to something earlier in the instructions. I tried to look through the louvers on the door to my left but could make no determination. I thought about speaking out, but to keep my lack of acumen with corridors to myself, I choose to say nothing. The same feeling of recurrence swept over me again. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than one day ago. Could I harness this memory this time? A long apparent hall, two doors, massive conundrum…. Damnit! If I could only remember what I had done before. Could I make this decision again? Did I make it a first time? Maybe I should just swallow my pride and call for assistance? Maybe I should just retreat? I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. I took several steps backward as I felt a wave of presyncope wash over me. Just then...a lightbulb exploded at the end of the hall. It made a loud ‘shuh-zzapt!’ followed by the cracking of glass and a final fizzle as the electricity spilled unencumbered into the air.
I fell to the ground in a trancelike haze. The explosion felt as if it occurred right above me. I heard distant rumblings as I tried to steady myself but all I could do is lay akimbo. My head still swirling, I looked up to see her rush to my side. “Oh my god! What happened?! Is the tea ok?”
“Luckily the delicate and caduke beverage is safe and secure, still in its storage area.” I groggily bleated. “Besides…I thought you didn’t even like tea.”
“True…but still…it’s always sad to see any biont destroyed.”
“Good news then…I’m also fine…”
“Oh…yeah…well I assumed being you’re conscious and not bleeding or screaming...”
“Well, when in someone else’s residence I try to be polite and hemorrhage all over…even when booby traps are set for me.”
“Hey…I had nothing to do with whatever happened.” She said with a slight smirk.
“Ha…your lightbulb, your tea, your door conundrum, your…uh hallway…everything screams you.” She got up and looked at the shattered pieces of glass that now adorned her yellow berber carpet. “Hmm…that shouldn’t have happened. Usually the explosions here are limited to the kitchen and the bedroom.” I sat up and perched myself against the wall. “Well…we should probably clean this up. Afterwards, we can discuss this near assassination attempt in detail over that tea.”
“So you admit it!”
She smiled and then opened the door on the right and took out the tea.
*Two years later*
I opened the door. The handle was slightly sticky with the sweat of the afternoon’s work load. The room was nearly vacant and smelt of goose down. Three boxes remained near the bay window. My legs ached and I desperately needed a chair. I walked into what I was told was the hall, to the only chair remaining. It was a small foldable affair, being supported on one side with several Swank magazines. I sat and felt relief. As I looked around the room I noticed something amiss. There was a door silently sitting across from another door, near the end of the corridor. At first I was dismayed at the thought of yet another room to clear out, but then I thought that it was rather enigmatic that I completely forgot this door’s existence.
“Sweetbonbinade…was this door always here?” I shouted inquisitively.
“Einflan botibbel swft.” I heard mutedly.
“What’s that now?” I heard her approach from the bedroom.
“I said…what door do you mean?”
“That one that…on the left near the end of this passage.” I pointed defiantly.
“Oh…that’s been there this whole time…no?”
“Assumedly…but then why haven’t we purged it yet?”
“Hmm…maybe it’s full of nothing but those little figurines of outdated religious figures from the middle east that you bought at the bazaar several months ago.”
“No…those were under the bed…and now are in the sturdiest of boxes, so ensure they don’t fracture in the move.”
“Hmm…I don’t know then. I’ll get another box from the office…you go down there and see what we are dealing with.”
“Adequate.” I said as I struggled to stand. I walked down to the doors, which flanked me to either side. Precipitously, a similar feeling of recurrence swept over me. I would have sworn I stood in this exact spot less than three years ago. I shook my head but the feeling wouldn’t pass. I was certain I had been here previously. I was certain I’ve been surrounded by these doors before. I was certain I wasn’t being photographed by the Russian mafia. I started to feel a cold sweat develop on the back of my neck. I started to breathe faster and heavier. I could feel my bowels twitch and tighten. In an adrenaline rush a turned towards the door but just as I swung the door fully open, a great cascade of light crashed upon my countenance and everything froz...