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when star(ship)s collide. by Christopher Alen F.
not even the bard. oh no. no, indeed, the flow of juxtapositions and endless wrappings of space upon time upon space.... these are things of deiticious beauty that are regarded incompletely by men. like the bard, words must need be invented to impart the immensity of it all.
the machinations of spacetime are but an effect of something still greater, yet it is this interminable layering of this reality that formulates the nature of what we insist upon calling randomness. it is only the eruptions of energy across the filaments and strings and ribbons of the subtlest phrases and subharmonic multidimensional compositions of tremulous energies, and yet they are curiously deemed unobservable, such is their supposed weakness in our existence.
but this most minimal of movements can be seen about us in everything we do. for it is what we call freedom of the will. this.... interminability. this randomness. this obfuscatory, unpatternable semicessation of reason that are higher-order dimensional incursions. these are our limitations, our vices, our histories, and yet this also gives us our choices.
you and i, my dear, are in just such a cacophony of existence intercollecting. we are such a fleeting pattern in the randomness pulled together through the strings of time like some grand orchestration of infinity...
and she slaps him so shockingly and fiercely that his perfunctory teeth quite literally rattle -- with proper gaps of spittle-globuled vaccuous space born between enamel and gum, tiny vacuum-packed expanses between the continuous surface of woven atoms that engulf the mouth (indeed, engulfs all of everything with tridimensionality, not only the mouth, but also hair follicles and volcanoes and gopher mounds and boulders and et cetera, et cetera, for surfaces and volumetric content are our most essential and primary assets) -- such that they bruxiate for more than a picosecond or so.
stop rambling! she cries.
her hand is raised to impart a desultory slap to the face upon the rascally japeth'ikimmaw should he deliver a dynamic and redundant follow-up post-script of plush verbal apologeticism.
blood rushes to his cheeks with autonomic urgenc...
and again, with a WHAP!
be quiet you thundering blunderbuss! shut that gaping broadcaster you call a mouth! still that motion and be calmed, man!
he girds his loins forcibly.
she has taken over communication. he is defeated. doomed to submission. it is said that from here there is no gaining the upper ground. that whipping begins the moment the democracy emerges in a relationship. one-hundred percent majority-rule in an instant.
he is utterly, but unintentionally, smitten.
so he plays.
the tune sails serenely into the undercurrents of spacetime. caressing glows and murmurs of light and tachyonic vibrations that men might liken to the sonambulatory serenade of the whales cuddle and envelop jinni'daenazza.
your song is honeyed, she coos.
she unravels the centripedal legs of her quatrimetric manifold, twining his and her petradimensional motion together.
japeth'ikimmaw! you untangle from that whore this instant!
silence screeches through the cafe.
jinni'daenazza moves her sight from the newly arrived intruder to japeth'ikimmaw and marks well the creeping blush on his cheeks.
and who is that? she enquires with a hip loaded with suspicion.
sweetheart! darling! muffin! oh i wuv you, puffin, sings japeth'ikimmaw as he sails sheepishly toward his wife. and by the ear she drags him off, to his reverberating protestations that it was only the teeniest weensiest bit of harmless flirting.
her false-started heart sunken again, but stoically unsurprised, jinni'daenazza sets out in search of adventure and excitement and romance again.