I was so absorbed in all the magnificent store of knowledge at my finger tips that for a long while I never realized one very important detail—I was able to read. Of course I can read, but I was able to read in a world I had never been to. The characters impressed on the pages were ones that did not appear any more alien to me than those I had learned on Earth when I was first entering school and had to pour through exercises of assonantal vowel sounds of Dad. Dad ran. Can Dad? Dad ran to the pan. And instead of feeling exulted that “Dad” was able to make it to the pan unhindered and unmolested, I thought “Dad” was in need of a good thrashing by his coveted cooking utensil, and even more so the author who possessed the stupidity to write such drivel intended to turn children on to worlds inhabited by the written word.

It was this curiosity of reading that forced me to consider how this populace and I were able to understand one another. By understanding I refer to speech only. Beyond a common language it took years of struggle before we truly accustomed ourselves to one another. But what I could not fathom was why we were able to communicate with each other. I wondered if by some wonderful coincidence they all spoke English or whether I was able to speak Tumulish. It reminded me of the Narnia children who walked into a world where all the inhabits conveniently spoke their language. If they had been Mexican niños and niñas I wonder what would have happened. Maybe they were expressly chosen as the future kings and queens of Narnia based solely on the virtue of being English, which would be racist. I also thought of the movie Thor and its eponymous hero who, though a being from an extra-dimensional realm, somehow was able to speak modern day English with nary an accent, let alone speak it at all. If his war hammer, mjolnir, had landed in Uzbekistan instead of America or the beings in Asgard happened to speak Swahili, then poor Thor would have been S.O.L. Just goes to show, life is always convenient for a god. Unless you are Jesus.

____________________

The city of Shinayim and its outlands reside in what is considered an impossibly large cavern system. The lighting of forge fires and foxfires has its spatial limits, and what could be discerned and more tangibly felt through exploration was this: Although the outlands of dark desert engirdling the city like a crescent moon with its dunes that show black sand even when illuminated tempted and goaded the imagination into thinking they led to some escape, all previous exploratory consensus proved the contrary. Rock entombs us. Walls of it rise impenetrably thick and immeasurably high. Domed it is, but as insane our efforts may be to build a bridge outward to escape it evidences some form of aperture through which we might find passage.

Two things give us this belief. The first is not aided by visual evidence, but rather, deduction—if we had found (or had been forced) a way in, then there must be a way out (unless it had been sealed). Unfortunately, not one of us had any recollection of how we arrived, so we could neither prove nor refute that claim, only cling to it. The second is not only visually based, but visually appealing as well. Molten fires seep downward from the higher planes and rain like globules of meteors from time to time. Quiet an impressive show like the Fourth of July or every night at the Magic Kingdom, but topsy-turvy. The event does not transpire very often (for which I am thankful because my skin has a hypoallergenic response to anything greatly exceeding its own natural body temperature), but often enough and spanning wide enough to give us hope that our efforts are not in vain—going through all the grueling efforts of bridge building only to knock our heads against an impenetrable roof of rock. This rain also acts as a source of lighting, unless it lands in our eyes, in which case the world would then turn suddenly dark.

Something should be said here as well concerning our little project and the means of construction before plunging further in depth about the lost boys who applied themselves so diligently towards it. The means themselves were quite mean looking at it from a more modern and refined technological perspective. For some length of time, before advancements could be made, we both operated and lived at about a technologically medieval level—no complex machinery, no diesel fuel even if we had such machines, no electricity, not even a flicker of magic. The magic part might sound funny, but I half-believed these fiends should have some kind of unusual powers imparted by their divine and now demonic natures, and most claimed that some of them had been able to perform pretty amazing feats of sorcery at one time, but that time was now gone. Many of the workers did know how to disappear throughout the workday, but I attributed that more as a form of legerdemain than any real magic. No sir, we did not have any aliens to build our pyramid for us. Elbow grease was brought in by the bucket full every morning.

____________________

Though I knew that Karmiyl and he were no longer friends, I did not consider that Amora might take any aggressive actions against him, leading to what transpired that night. Judas at least displayed some telltale signs for his betrayal that the keen observer could have picked up on:

1. He was the only apostle in the group that had a last name.

2. The first part of his last name, Iscariot, sounds like is scary.

3. Jesus mentions it at the Last Supper.

____________________

“I will tell you what fills these books. Each book here is a grimoire. Their pages contain spells. Spells of transmutation. You wish for eloquence, then read, read on, and your hand and tongue will speak with flourish. You wish to change your heart, find compassion, find courage, then read and learn of heroes who devoted their lives to great change. To alter your own fate? Open these many spellbooks and fastened doors will be unlocked, hidden paths will be made visible. A single word can be a silver key. Happiness? Learn the tragedies, the sacrifices of those who came before us and built the thrones of comfort we now sit upon. Bittersweet happiness will be yours. And God. The paving stones that lead a path to Him are each a leaf of paper, sheer and light but adamantine strong.”

“Do any of these grimoires have a spell within them that can conjure for me life’s true meaning?”

“Ungracious child, overcome by cupidity. I said these pages contain spells of alchemy. Not impossible feats of thaumaturgy.”

Dark Lantern

Constructs & Forgery

Presents:

Getting to Know You - An Anonymous Survey

Helping Us Help You Help Us

Make a Difference in Our Differences

The following questionnaire was designed to find out what makes our employees really tick and what makes them really ticked. Mark the circle next to the answer you feel best describes you when applicable. Mark it twice if you feel strongly about it. Answer these questions honestly and to the best of your knowledge.

1. Do you tend to:

○ Give people the benefit of the doubt.

○ Doubt people’s benefit.

2. Do you prefer:

○ Having peace of mind.

○ Letting people have a piece of your mind.

3. When someone says, "Nobody was expecting much from you, so don’t worry about it," do you feel:

○ Insulted.

○ A great sense of relief.

4. Do you:

○ Feel mentally challenged at work.

○ Feel mentally-challenged at work.

5. Do you:

○ Feel like you have the tools to do your job.

○ Feel like a tool when you do your job.

6. Of the two statements which do you find most complimentary:

○ You are like a Wikipedia of knowledge.

○ I like your shoes.

How did this one make it down here? I thought.

7. As health insurance rates increase based upon an employee’s B.lob M.ass I.ndex certain diets must be considered. At work do you indulge in:

○ Delicatessen food.

○ Delitescent food.

8. Are you more afraid of:

○ Being yourself.

○ What you might become.

9. I most enjoy:

○ People watching.

○ Peephole watching.

10. It’s late and you are at home. You have just eaten a dinner where it seems more food has gotten stuck between your teeth than you have swallowed. You open the cupboard and find that the last piece of dental floss is not long enough to use. Do you:

○ Make the trek out to the store to buy more even though it is late and you are ready for bed.

○ Go to bed anyway, working out the pieces with your tongue.

○ Notice an old piece of floss sitting within your wastebasket, taking solace in the old adage “waste not want not”.

11. How strongly do you feel about money, i.e. wages:

○ My red blood is not more precious to me. I worship Mammon in all his blessedness.

○ I never learned the value of the coin. I can’t tell a sixpence from a ha’penny.

○ Money is the root of all fun.

○ I sleep with an obolus[1] under my tongue (just in case).

○ Money has no hold over me. I just like material things and entertainment.

○ I turn tricks on my lunch break.

12. At work I would like to see more:

○ Efficiency and discipline.

○ Progress; visible proof that we are accomplishing something.

○ More light with which to work.

○ Boobs.

13. One thing that would greatly benefit me/give me greater satisfaction at work:

○ A higher degree of accountability for all employees.

○ Steam-powered semi-conscious autonomous servants.

○ Nepotism.

○ See my arch-bullies finally have an emotional breakdown where I may:

◊ Secretly gloat and twiddle my fingers saying "that’s what you get."

◊ Support them with the compassion and understanding I always craved.

14. When people make fun of me at work I:

○ Analyze my life and any shortcomings I may have.

○ Challenge them to a "burn off."

○ Say, "God’ll get ’em!" with poisonous vehemence under my breath.

○ Spend the remainder of my day and evening passively philosophizing their reasons and the overall,

inexplicable psychology of all sentient creatures.

○ Wish I had dangerous mind powers.

○ Assume the lotus position and contemplate my navel.

○ Write a satirical story about it involving bridges.

Fill in the space providing any comments you have that might improve the operations of this company:

I considered. How private is this survey? If someone were to make a nasty veiled threat surely the company would forego his right to anonymity, making it a matter for the law to investigate. But what if someone were to write, "I think the workings of this company would vastly improve if so-and-so, the administrator of my department, died of natural causes"?

____________________

Sitting, resting, enjoying our meals upon the battlefield of our worksite or afterwards in the firelit taverns at night, I imagined ourselves something akin to the Viking heroes of Valhalla who spent their days sweating out blood and replacing it with vast quantities of meat and drink, boasting of great deeds done on the field and at the dinner table. But we are more like the Bizarro antiheroes of Allahlav having had our Ragnarok and simply trying to pick up the pieces afterward. If there is one similarity between us and the einherjar though we belong to an ignoble caste, it is this: We work hard, we eat hard. We are required to consume vast quantities of rich food to provide the caloric intake necessary to operate our bodies for work—like the people of 21st century America who lack the machines and powered tools their ancestors from the past used to have.

Smitty’s plate, after he finishes with the chops and ribs of who knows what unlucky beast piled upon it, is nothing short of an elephant graveyard. Leytzaniel’s stomach, which would not be considered fat, may as well be filled with helium after a meal. Lunch ended, a favorite pastime of his was to take the bottom front of his buttoned short-sleeve shirt and wrap it into the neck, pretending he was a... demon of a different persuasion.

“Ben,” he would ask, patting his ballooning hairy stomach, which took everything in my power to stop from disgorging the contents of mine. “Does this shirt make me look fat?”

“Quite prosperous, one should think,” I would reply, diplomatically.

Then he would walk with his protruding paunch towards Kol already bent over working, who was made uncomfortable by males who were comfortable with other males. Feeling a shadow upon him, he would glance upward to see a rotund brown sac filling the whole of his vision. All he could manage to muster in his unnerved state was a “Get away from me, Zany. Come on, we got work to do,” followed by a shudder.

Often Leytzaniel would lament that the stress of our jobs, despite the physical demands, was causing him to put on weight.

“Ben, I’m a nervous eater.”

“I’m a nervous eater too,” I admitted.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So nervous in fact, that you know how a piece of food gets lodge in your throat, and your heart starts racing as you struggle to swallow it down and you can feel the blood rushing in terror to your abdomen? Well, no sooner than my mind assesses that a crisis has been averted and I am okay than my hand forces another bite into my mouth to calm my rattled nerves.”

Kol himself has the uncanny ability to eat like a duck, apparently without swallowing when his uncle appears, telling him that we could not take all day on a project. “I knowwww,” his voice would tremolo in nervous agitation and annoyance. Then he would look up out of the corners of his eyes as he was stuffing a hoagie-like comestible in his mouth like a dog afraid that someone will snatch his food away, swallowing a twelve inch long sub like a geek at a carnival doing his sword act. His stomach must have had teeth in it.

Dag, I will never know how he ever felt full because I swear he loses at least half of every meal to the spaces between his teeth. Perhaps he employs the instincts of a pelican, saving some for later. I wondered the same for Tarnegol—for as big a voice as he possesses he has the smallest mouth when he eats, looking as though he is whistling a tune as he puts little meaty bones in it.

For myself, I would consider myself an ascetic, quite parsimonious in my rations; enough, really, just to tickle and flavor the tongue. Alas, that is a lie. We are allotted only one break for the day that could stretch for at least ten hours (often, six days a week), though even twelve is not uncommon, and no one knows how long it might be, so I stockpile while I have the chance. We have probably all witnessed at some point or another people who shapeshift into animals while they eat, voracious in their appetites, boorish in their manners. I become one after the meal is over. The totemic spirit of the penguin possessing my body as I waddle back to work on legs incapable of bending at the knees, a veritable ambulating bowling pin, wobbling side to side, feeling for the next forty-five minutes like a balloon filled with the condensed gas of a neutron star until my digestive system gets a handle on the situation.

What does my lunch consist of? Aside from the pasties, which are time consuming to make, the bulk of it is compromised of a sandwich, a medley of delight containing a representative from almost all the kingdoms of life: plant, animal, fungi, and of course bacteria as our little invisible buddies are ubiquitous in everything. The “bread” kneaded from bone meal or consisting of sheaves of bracket fungi, meats cured by smoke and salt, and wane carnivorous or parasitic representations of the plant kingdom preserved with brine make my vegetables. Salt. Its in so much of what I eat. It took getting used to, and even after getting used to it I still do not care to stomach it. On Earth I always used vinegar in lieu of salt. It tenderized and moistened meats and added the piquant flavor of salt without the detrimental health defects. Here there are mines brimming with salt that we use to flavor and preserve our food. But no vineyards, rice pads, or apple orchards with which to make vinegar, or citric acid to pickle anything. Only salt to desiccate my fresh food to preserve it and myself as well. Even though I have died I do not know the exact limits of this new body. I would like to keep it healthy if I could and even keep it from pissing every five minutes because of the amount of water I need to drink to quench my thirst. Fruit also is not to be had; a torment, because in the all the years that were to pass I never lost my thirst for it. The closest that would come to any were pasty, pustulant sacks of seed pods—dry and fibrous, though rich in energy and fat like an avocado. Umm... avocado, Nature’s butter. Never to be had again.

My “sweet treat” typically comes in the form of bars—toasted bits of dried and broken plant bound by gelatin. More desert than dessert. Reminiscent of the Nature Valley brand, so called, I think, because when biting into the cement-board-like bar half the product crumbles and is given back to Nature, falling to the ground for the ants to pick up. Not to slander their good intentions of trying to bring a natural product to a market glutted with bastardized and adulterated products. If only such a thing as poetic justice would exist, then the peddlers of all sorts of garbage might choke on their own products and so perform the world a great service. On Earth someone once insisted that I should have a Cheetoh and thought I was very strange for refusing. I responded that I would sooner walk barefoot through Hell than eat that unfood. Here I am at present, barefooted, as cobblery is an unpracticed trade among the ungulate creatures I work besides, and I would still not rescind my words for the life of me, unrepentant to the last.

But these granulation bars, as we call them, seem to me as though someone took pieces of burnt bread crumb and glued them together with spit and sealing wax. Every time I bite into them the bar would bust apart and fall towards the ground, cascading in a crumbling cataract. To the opportunistic vermin searching the soil I must have appeared like the rock biter from the Never Ending Story. His deep, Eeyore like voice woefully echoing in my head as I witness half my snack slipping through my fingers: “They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?” The question he repeatedly asked as he dejectedly recalled failing to save his friends from the Nothing that drew them into its abyss.

[1] The coin placed under the tongue of corpse so that Charon will receive his required payment to ferry the soul across the river Acheron.

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Next Chapter: Chapter 2: (dis)Orientation