Sunday, March 10, 2013

Before the Last Object is Thrown by R.A. Harris

Tomlinson spun the ultra-pink neon bulb, the final piece of the puzzle, on his finger before tossing it into the mix. It flew after the other objects in a beautiful choreography that only a professional meta-fictional juggling troupe could achieve. Between Eric, Gavin and himself, they now juggled twelve emperor penguins, thirty laptops, tension, the human genome, an orange so moldy it was turquoise, an old Swiss lady, a rabid pregnant television set, a television executive with a gun, smaller versions of themselves juggling even smaller versions of themselves (ad infinitum), a mobile phone, a couple of young spirits, a fluorescent green dildo with a pot of honey flavored lube and the ultra-pink neon bulb. The only thing that was missing was a woman with flaming nipples.

Tomlinson was shocked when the turquoise orange metamorphosed into a miniature dragon. After consideration, he realised that this may well have been a full sized dragon as he hadn't actually seen one before. It wasn't such a surprise to him when its razor sharp wings tore a hole in reality, letting in a collective of parasitic logicians, as he always suspected his world to be made of flimsy material stitched together with frail premises. The logicians flew in like locust, latched onto the soft membrane of reality with terrifying ferocity and immediately began draining logic from its virtual metaphysical processes.

Eric got bored with juggling, which was at odds with his very raison d'ĂȘtre. But given that his entire consciousness would otherwise revolve around juggling, it came across as a development that gave a previously unfathomed depth to his character. It was probably caused by the case of Praxis Illogica brought about by the parasite logicians collected on the membrane of reality like so many ticks, rather than any intention on the part of a Creator-entity. He yawned immeasurably wide.

“When you open your mouth wide like that I can see a black hole where your soul should be,” Tomlinson told him. “Maybe you should get that checked out. You're not supposed to be able to see black holes.” He juggled the pink bulb towards Eric.

Eric stretched his mouth wider, trying to get a glimpse down his own throat. He took his eye off of the pink bulb and it sailed down his gullet. His interior burnt a brilliant neon pink as the sphere imploded into its own negative state just before passing through the black hole.

Once the dazzling light had dissipated Tomlinson risked another look down Eric's throat. “Would you look at that? The black hole's gone.” His voice echoed around Eric's gaping mouth. “But you, my friend, are soulless.” And then, without really knowing where it came from, he added, “Merely an empty vessel to facilitate a world of events far removed from the mundane reality we inhabit here.”

“I'm blind,” Gavin said as he groped around for the soft membrane of reality that held him in place. “It's all pink.”

Tomlinson couldn't help but think that their existence was a mere formality now. No longer able to really call the three of them a meta-fictional juggling troupe, he set about dismantling the dimensions that had been constructed to house their essence. A flat packed Tomlinson cursed it all to hell.

“All this cursing makes me want to go boil a witch,” said Eric.

Tomlinson briefly pondered on the implications of his thoughts being projected so that Eric could comment on them, but just shrugged it off as a glitch in the mechanisms guiding their world, most likely just another symptom of the ontological virus represented by the plague of logicians. He held the deconstructed dimensions out at arm's length because they stank like rotten egg. He pinched his nose with his other hand and hop-stepped over to the tear caused by the dragon, where he tossed them out into oblivion.

Without a structure, the soft membrane of reality cascaded over the troupe like a collapsing circus tent, little bubbles of paradox silently rose from the mess and then popped, spilling antithetical notions and conclusions into one another, making their enunciation redundant. Tomlinson and the others swirled around in eddy currents, transient pools of liquid similarity, before descending into the depths of irreal virtuality like waste down a plug hole.


R. A. Harris lives in England, a merry land made up inside his head. He writes bizarre fiction and some of it gets published. Go here: to see some of his famous flash work.
Copyright 2013 R.A. Harris 

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