041.Filling In The

Temporal dislocation – a purposeful destabilisation of the person’s localspace, so as to push them out through time. Ruebeau, more of a nameless thing than a person now, was going to be lost by this randomising time machine they had built. They had given him as much Rejuve as he wanted, so he could keep going on as long as he wanted.

They had isolated the property in him that made the LEthe contagious, and they were going to use that as a delivery system, pushed out through the four remaining members of Mnemosyne.

They were using a combination of mass delivery via crop dusting planes, but also they had hooked into and were intent on reprogramming via the morphic resonance of the entire human race, of which those in Mnemosyne were just an amplified version. Everyone would remember everything.

Colin smiled as he sat there with these people – all this time chasing Ruebeau to restore his memory, to unlock the key to the disease, and here they were. Billions of skullphones ringing, all the ringkeys hacked: everyone’s ability to refuse this call circumvented. The biological spiralling out, and the programming language of these gene-hack geniuses going into effect.

The degraded remnants of The Children Of The Tableau awoke wondering why they stared at the pictures of a man who suddenly meant nothing to them as their real memories reasserted themselves.

A few remaining Curse Nurses observing what was happening felt a different protocol asserting itself from under their framework of drug administering oblivion.

The memory spheres sang memories back into their owners. The Nostalgia Dumps, The Diary Bunkers, The Calendar Centres – their fruits were distributed amongst the populace.

Old Rebuild men smiled as they fixed their thousand yard stares past the goal they had been fighting for all this time.

The Forget Me Not Bar and The Palace Of Lies bar were full of merriment, and not the usual stilted sadness. The War On Amnesia was won. Lethe was gone – the last batches hunted down and destroyed.

The Engineer went back to tinkering with things other than society.

Jonas was happy with the outcome of it all, after a fashion.

The Prophet nodded knowingly, seeing what others could not, unfolding where others could not see.

Runcible’s body burned in the ditch alongside all the others in his group – a cancer burned out. Spitz had seen what was happening elsewhere, and he knew these men would use the huge societal upheaval to happily disappear

Erin had plans for Colin – they were soon to be considered civilians; retired after so long in service.

The River Of Lethe broke free of their programming. Project Remind also retired themselves – they had spent too long on active duty.

Somewhen a man awoke, a migraine splitting his skull in half, he had thoughts about being defeated, but then he realised that he was awake and that he was alive, and that whatever had been done to him could be undone. Once more Spay set off on a mission to become … to find himself.

Rubeau adjusted his fedora. For months they had been asking what his name was, and he kept saying I am blank. At some point it just became simpler to call him that: Blank. Despite his poor memory in regards to himself, he had an amazing faculty for solving problems. Blank detective agency ¬†opened it’s doors not long afterwards.

-*-

Kassovich knocked back the shot of vodka. He looked at the piece of paper that had been pushed across the table to him.

‘What’s this, Barlow?’

‘There have been strange reports coming from some of the Eastern European countries on our watchlist … rumours of a group called The Children Of The Tabula Rasa, a man called Arson, or Our Son. Others call him Spay, and he is offering up oblivion to his followers.’

‘And this is interesting to us why?’

‘Because the rumours suggest he really has found a way to obliterate memory, and the tech seems far in advance of our own.’

‘Let’s track him down then.’

Shatter

You don’t really learn how to shatter someone’s skull – they tell you all about it, they give you all the information on where to hit, and how to hit, but at the end of the day it is something you find out for yourself. Some things are so close up and personal that you have to get your hands dirty. He got his hands dirty.

He stood there looking at her laid naked on the bed, her eyes REM-sleep ticking through Meme Dreams, slightly frothing at the mouth, her ident-mask on the bedside table. She was supposed to help him forget what he had done; some people liked drugs to blot it out, and some people liked women.

She didn’t come anywhere near scratching the colossal itch that was shivering through him. He dressed and he stepped outside, chameleon fractal camera projectors booting up and reparsing the environment around him so that no one could see him. Well, unless they were digging with the kind of spades that the people he knew were going to be using – still, it would slow them down at least.

Barron, his commander, circled around the block where he was stood, in out of the rain and the refraction index issues caused immeasurable stutters in the chameleon suit he wore. He smoked a cigarette while he waited for the rain to ease.

All of them were intimate with the act of fist fighting – they had names to match; they were intimate with shattering someone’s skull. Barron had sent Donkeypunch in after him because the man had had success before; for the lack of subtlety in the method of his kill-strike he was harder to see approaching than a cat in hunting mode.

That thump, that fist, that punch – that thing which you had worked so long to perfect, you always knew that some day you would end up on the end of a similarly fashioned blunt weapon.

‘Jerome,’ whispered the man, as his knuckles connected with the back of Jerome’s head.

Jerome thought of the girl again, and he wished he were sinking into the Meme Dream. But his sleep would be so much deeper than that.

Outlines

He was an Outline, some kind of reality glitch, where the continuum rejig hadn’t erased a non-person completely. Logically they shouldn’t have existed, but somehow there was residual data stored in the signalling part of some of the upper dimensional particles that had been quantum entangled with the individuals.

He could see others like him easily – he knew none of the non-Outlines could really do that, but where did that get him … unless there was some kind of quantum physicist genius who had been outlined as well, they weren’t going to be building any escape routes any time soon.

He knew his mother had christened him Christopher, but he felt that the fact he no longer technically had a mother meant his name seemed a little invalid too. Screw it, might as well call himself Christ – who was going to oppose it?

It was maybe his third year of trudging through this half-life. It seemed longer – relativity took hold of the experience and stretched it like taffy. It was depressing – reality was a vestigial limb of his perceptual apparatus that itched like hell, but which he couldn’t get in a position to scratch.

Christ sat down and wondered how this had come to pass – what thing had been bumped aside or erased from the continuum preceding his existence that had wiped him out? What if he could skirt back down the loop of infinity, through the eye of the needle singularity, and unstitch that event horizon slipslide drown into oblivion? There was something unphysical about him, so what if the logical constraints of the physical universe were not binding to him? He felt no concern about theoretical Hawking radiation or unilinear time. What did he care for the postulated universe of some quantum physicist? What if observer influence and intention had made the first time travel machine possible, and what if, here on the outskirts of the real, his own perceptual push could undo something … could unmake some newly minted absolute?

He had once listened to a cassette on the power of positive thought. He had once managed to get his foot behind his head after a particularly limber yoga class where he had spent over an hour sat in the vedic position doing circular breathing – so he could focus really hard … he was good at that shit. So he did it.

One man can make a change – he had been an author back before he was wiped out. He had ghost-written before, so he was used to working with outlines. He sat there and he reconfigured the localspace around him into a script, digging in down deep and dirty into the heart of reality, and he had started to fill in that outline. He sat there and smiled as he thought about how all works of art are, in some small way, a self portrait, and he wrote himself anew; he wrote himself back in.

He sat there writing, burying himself in the work, excavating himself from the shadow world he had slipped into, and when he felt the soft pressure of a hand on his shoulder, and when he smelt the familiar perfume that his mother always wore, he knew he had travelled back to reality … one he had put there, and he fell in love with his life and the world again. He knew it loved him back, because he was the one who was the beating heart at its center – he was the engine of this place, and as he drove it on it rewarded him back.

 

jane’s addiction haiku

jane’s addiciton rule
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jesus and the marychain haiku

darklands to munki
the jesus and mary chain boil
it into darkness

public image ltd haiku

public image proved
lydon was the genius
mclaren’s all talk

throbbing gristle haiku

throbbing gristle pulse
20 jazz funk greats simmers
strips your mind down stark