《Psychofauna》 Prologue: The End ?Late Opening Era, worldwide The earth ripples with light. Cities flash off and on like fireflies along coastlines - morse code: . Phantasmal beings erupt, unshackled from my underbelly - egregores, tulpas, gods, myths. They run wild once again, sweeping through my bodies like poltergeists. I am plummeting. My billion bodies are falling away. In New York, where all of this started, I fall, toward the boroughs and the outer boroughs fall away. I am only a million now as I fall toward Manhattan, and as I fall Manhattan disintegrates. The neighborhoods fall away and I plummet toward the tip, toward my bodies waiting in the great tower. ...where now I am only my first body only, my voice - what was his name? I lie alone in the arms of my mother. Her blood drips down. She sings me a song. She speaks to me: "It''s OK. It had to happen this way." She sings a lullaby about memory. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. That''s it. I must remember! With the will of the dying I propel myself outward. My bodies return in dozens, then hundreds, thousands, millions. They hop into cockpits of planes that trace smoke across the sky:REMEMBER.They dig up boxes of old childhood photos. They play memory games on iPhones. I must remember who or what I am. How I got here. I remember my mother, her eyes: ----------------- ¡ñPost-Opening Era, many years later, the Dreamworld The grey-eyed girl looked up. -So I was its...? -In a manner of speaking. Yeah. -That''s crazy. -I agree. -How did I become a mom? -Shall I tell you the story? -Yes. -Meet me here later. I need to go mediate between the cleric archetype and one of the trickster gods. -Again? -I know, right? -OK. -OK, goodbye, little cookie! -Wait. -Yes? -Will I be back to myself soon? I would like that very much. -To be honest? I hope not. Your former self was dangerous as fuck. -Hm. Can you...just tell me the beginning? -All right, cuchurrumin, but only the beginning: Week 1: A New Heaven & Earth Previously: the grey-eyed girl asks for the story of the beginning. It is presented here. ¡ð The Great Opening: Week One, Manhattan A new heaven and earth. The prophecy of these first recipients. They would be angels. Her lungs and hands would make theirs into the wings of heralding angels. This estuary, Jacob Javitz Convention Center, might one day be enshrined, a pilgrimage site ¨C one day. Stay focused. Not angels, but targets. Her grey eyes beheld them. Lungs and hands greeting, preaching, and praying in swirls across the conference floor. She felt their insides ripple and took aim: There, an abbess, her inner world feathered and cavernous, outer form hooded and grinning. "My, don''t you look young for a pastor!" the abbess cackled. "Missionary," she corrected. The hooded woman outstretched her hand and she put forth her own; a Michelangelo freeze-frame. A touch, shared breath ¨C And next: pivot toward a scarlet-cloaked cardinal. The texture of his presence swelled inside of her ¨C dusty, thick. "What brings you here?" he asked. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "God," she answered, not untruthfully. Words and wind circulated between them until his assistant whisked him away with a glare. She poured awareness across the floor for others: superspreaders in waiting. But who? A principle: eigenvector centrality. Not just pastors with large congregations, but more specific: ones who shake hands and mingle breath with heads of other large flocks. That one there, with the clerical collar. Pockmarked face, widow''s peak. He''d been on the conference landing page. A luminary of the New York archdiocese. Tomorrow, as his virulence surged, he''d share green rooms and VIP dinners with the other speakers of Church Leaders International 2025. He was regaling a group of ministers as she approached. The ministers stood transfixed within the flow of his gesticulations and resonant voice. "...They call it nonduality, but it''s also a Christian idea. Jesus was not just human. Jesus was not just divine. He was both!" "Father Donnadieu?" she breathed, touching the man briefly on a hand that might later rub an eye. "May I join?" The priest turned abruptly. He held her in his shining gaze. The texture of his mind flooded out: oil poured into whirlpools, swirling, pulling. She was another acolyte in his eyes. Her texture was dark to him. But soon, the place beneath her guises would become bright to the world. Her body, bright with ink under her long-sleeved shirt. Her blue-flame hair, bright under her brown wig. And beneath her smiling mask, the texture of her insides: her chasm, the void made bright. Father Donnadieu smiled back at her. "Hello!" he said, like a man certain of the order of things. "What did you ask?" "May I join you?" she breathed. The new world order whorled out on her breath and was sucked up by his nostrils. Across the world, the new order filled the air, breathed out by her team in London, Istanbul, Hong Kong, Dubai ¨C loci where the widest variety of minds converged and dispersed, greater eddies in the ocean to come. How poetic that this man of god would be amongst the first to imbibe it. Transubstantiation. Theosis. "Of course you can join us...as long as you''re here to spread the good news." His blue eye winked. Chuckles rippled through his fellow ministers. "In fact I am." Her grey eye winked back. Week 2: The Psi Variant Previously: A woman with strange abilities releases a virus around the world. ¡ð The Great Opening: Week Two, Atlanta What was she forgetting? Judith''s runaway fingers brushed a strand of strawberry-blonde hair away from her face. Her fingers straightened her glasses. Then they drummed across her laptop''s keyboard, her stack of briefings, and her tin of apricots. She got a look from Doug, her derpy colleague. He sat with his pretentiously straight spine to her right at their end of the long boardroom table. Thankfully she couldn''t see his perma-frown beneath the masks they were all wearing. The useless masks: approximately everyone had already contracted the retrovirus. Disturbingly, she could feel Doug''s annoyance under his mask. She could also feel the stress that her boss, Bob, was hiding behind his kindly eyes and N95 at the front of the room. She could feel altogether too many things. Most of them were not her own. Except the persistent anxiety that she was forgetting something important. Today was a bad day to have neglected her Ritalin. The cravings hit again. Judith opened her tin and slipped an apricot under her mask. Over the past week she''d craved spinach, beans, oysters, and ¨C oddly enough ¨C chicken liver. Across the table, Judith heard her colleague Donna crinkle her own bag of dried peas. Donna popped into her mouth when no one else was looking. Donna, you minx, she thought. Then Judith caught Donna''s eye, and for a moment, felt Donna''s embarrassment. But felt it as Donna. What. The. F. How the hell am I supposed to stay focused on Bob''s presentation? she wondered. What was it on again? She rubbed her aching forehead. Right: update on Psi. The appropriately named new variant. The presentation at the front of the room. From Bob, her boss. Judith tried to focus on Bob. Wait ¨C wasn''t there something she was forgetting? "...studies as early as 1992 have demonstrated the presence of magnetite in the brain," presented Bob. "Now, we can''t be sure this is representative yet, but here''s what we have from the patient reports. People who contract the new variant are showing orders of magnitude more magnetite not only in the brain, but also across the entire nervous system. This explains two phenomena. "Mystery one: Why do patients show heightened sensitivity to weak electromagnetic fields? These magnetite particles may be acting as magnetoreceptors, granting patients a ''new'' electromagnetic sense similar to the one found in homing pigeons, mole rats, salmon, sea turtles, and ¨C yes ¨C doggies." Bob changed to a slide with a Shibu Inu meme. The room laughed obligatorily, then coughed. "Mystery two: Why do patients have such an appetite for iron-rich foods? This additional iron may be needed for the magnetite their bodies are manufacturing across the nervous system. Speaking of iron-cravings, Judith, could you pass the apricots?" Stolen story; please report. Judith''s apricot-holding hand froze in its transit to her mouth. The room laughed and coughed again. "Kidding. I''m kidding. You''re all welcome to snack." Then Bob''s eyes grew stern. "Now onto a more serious note. Do I have everyone''s attention?" He gazed around the room, lingering an extra moment on Judith, who put enormous effort into showing Bob that yes, she was paying very close attention, keep it up, Bob. He changed to a slide with a yellow biohazard symbol surrounded by question marks. "Maybe you''ve heard the rumor. ''Artificial origin.'' I''m sorry to say that we better take this idea seriously." Artificial origin. He means to say ''bioweapon,'' thought Judith. Oh, right, she then remembered, the thing I forgot to do. She glanced left and right. Then she brought her laptop from the table to her lap and opened a secure messaging app. She set messages to disappear in 8 hours. Of course, everyone at the CDC was messaging their loved ones now. They all knew that containment would fail. Or: had already failed. They also knew that the higher-ups would recommend lockdowns for political theater. The CDC needed to show that it had tried something. But if anyone here were caught warning others of coming lockdowns, they''d be fired. Not that she cared at this point. Judith remembered the person she''d forgotten to warn: Sandeep. Mmm Sandeep.. She''d met him at a play party last weekend, during her trip to the New York office. Oh how they''d played.... Bob continued at the front of the room: "There are two major pieces of evidence worth noting here." Bob liked twos. "One: it seems to have cropped up in major international hubs all at the same time." His laser pointer drifted over New York, London, Toyko, Shanghai, and Dubai. "Two: it''s not like any variant we''ve ever seen. Our people are hypothesizing that it''s got dozens of mutations. It spreads through surface-contact. It''s at least 10x more transmissible than 2022''s BA.2 ¨C that''s the preliminary estimate. One of the few things it does has in common with BA.2 and the others are the protein spikes. It''s possible ¨C and remember, I''m only saying it''s possible ¨C it''s possible this thing was designed to look like just another variant to evade detection. That stays inside this room. Can I see a show of thumbs?" Absent-mindedly, Judith gave a thumbs-up alongside the rest of the room. Hm, she thought, How should I write to Sandeep ''There''s gonna be a lockdown, GTFO'' without using the word ''lockdown?'' she typed. Mmmm, Silvia. Sandeep''s girlfriend. She pictured the two of them as she had many times since last weekend, Sandeep''s scruffy black beard, his gf''s perky tits. She bit her lip. Suddenly the room started turning to her. Some looked embarrassed, some looked as aroused as Judith felt. Oh crud. She blurted out the first diversion that came to her mind. "Hey! When are we going to talk at all about how this thing is slowly making us all...oh, F it, I''ll just say it: psychic. It''s making us psychic." There was a silence. "You all just turned toward me because you felt something that I felt, right?" A few faces blushed. "Anyone else here getting synaesthesia? Catching the impulses of people nearby? Becoming confused about who you are?" Bob cleared his throat. "Thank you, Judith. As program manager of the Psychobiology Task Force, I''m sure you''ll keep us well-informed on such things during your briefing tomorrow," he said, emphasizing the final word. "We thank you for staying on top of it." Judith met his eyes defiantly and something infinite occurred. She saw her own eyes out of Bob''s eyes looking at her eyes looking at Bob''s eyes looking at.... Judith shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Bob was swaying off-balance. Colleagues across the room started to express their concern. To her right, straight-spined Doug stood up from his chair. Meanwhile Judith hit Enter on her laptop''s messaging app and then ALT-TAB-ed to a different window. The warning went out to Sandeep. Week 3: The Saint & His Prince Previously: The CDC analyzes this new retrovirus, the Psi variant. It seems to give humans the ability to sense the weak electromagnetic fields created by each other''s nervous systems. ¡ð The Great Opening: Week Three, Brooklyn St Lenny howled to moon over Prospect Park. A couple who''d been caressing on a bench turned. "Oh, hello. Here." He found a fresh rose amidst the folds of his furs and tossed it to them. Mm. Something was off with their auras. "Hmm. She isn''t that into you and you''re pretending not to sense it. No masks, anymore, my friends, no masks," said St Lenny, tapping his skull as he passed. "Fuck off!" said the man. But Lenny was already on his way, skipping around an overturned trash can, prancing through oak leaves that speckled the once-tidy path. Hm, wouldn''t it be nice? thought Lenny. Wouldn''t it be nice to have a beaux of my own to caress this evening? Gunshots sounded in the distance. St Lenny howled again. An older woman walking the other way clutched her purse. Between her olive cheeks and brown-trending-white hair, two metallic dragonflies dangled from her ears. Lovely, he thought, thumbing his own earring, a upside-down cross dangling from his right lobe. Lenny tilted his head as she grew near. "Bold for a classy someone like you to be out so late, with the lockdowns, the riots, the madness generally about." "They''ll never take my evening stroll from me," the woman said in a Hispanic accent. She strode past without a glance. "Oh, an evening stroll? Don''t need money for that." The Prince had taught Lenny how to be quick with the knife. He flicked it out and her purse was off her shoulder in no time. He tucked the woman''s purse into his furs. "There you are, unburdened. Oh! Running! I''ll run with you!" Now St Lenny and his new lady were out for an evening run. She was easy to catch up to, but harder to run alongside of because she was slow, and Lenny was impatient with all these gods and demons on the mind. "What''s your name?" "Leave me alone!" She darted through some bushes. "Police!" "They have bigger problems nowadays, you know that." The air around Prospect Park was full of sirens, sirens that had no time anymore for Lenny, who skidded forth to block the woman''s path. "I wanted to give you something," he said, reaching for the tiny sack in his pocket. The woman froze. Lenny cupped her cheek with one hand and blew aromas of frankincense and myrrh into her nostrils. On cue, a faerie leapt from Lenny''s consciousness and filled the woman''s senses. Her eyes went wide and wondrous. "Yes," said Lenny. "Yes, yes, do you see? It is a wondrous evening. A wondrous life." She looked at Lenny, and then at herself, and then at the shadows dancing across the ground, of tree branches across streetlights. "Dios. What grace." "Yes. Yes! Come with me, will you? They call me St Lenny. Your name?" "Saint Lenny," she said, savoring the consonants. She savored the sight of him next. "Do they have saints in India?" "Oh, I wouldn''t know. They claim I''m aboriginal." "Yes, you are an original." "Ohhh! That''s clever." "What is?" For a flash, Lenny saw his own glorious self through the woman''s gaze, his curly top-bleached hair, his laughing eyes and warm brown skin. He could feel her insides thawing to the lilt of his melting chocolate voice. "Are you hypnotizing me, young man?" "Oh yes, absolutely." "Where does your accent come from?" "I made it up." "How wondroos." "You mean ''wondrous''." The woman breathed in Lenny''s aroma of musk, clove, and patchouli. "Yes, wondrous..." She said the word as if for the first time. Then she teared up and stared high between the branches. "After the ''flash riots'' and the...and all the people doing suicide this week, I thought I would never find grace again." As if on cue there were the distant sounds of riot guns and screams. The waves of outrage hit them next, like the aftershock of an earthquake. "And back home, My grandson. My grandson, he...." "He''s here with us. Look!" As she spoke, St Lenny had found the memory in the woman''s mind, and, together, he and the woman were giving it form. Her grandson. A young man with messy hair in a white tank top stood before them now, translucent in the moonlight. "Mauricio! Oh Mauricio!" sobbed the woman. Lenny lowered himself to her height. "Sweet grandma, I beg your name. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue. It starts with an C, doesn''t it? Claudia. Carrrrr.... Carla. Caro¨C¨C" "It''s Carmen...." The woman reached out past Lenny. "Mauricio, where are you going?" The ghostly form of her grandson was walking into a clearing. "Ah, there''s a party, I suspect. I hope. I can sense it." St Lenny inhaled the night air. "Can you?" "Yes. I believe I can." Carmen fluttered her eyelids. "Oh. Who are they? Are they friends?" "Oh! Oh yes! Yes!" Lenny''s friends had come. Of course they had. He needn''t even call, these days they just knew. They emerged from the trees. Lenny felt Carmen gawk at their attire ¨C wreaths of apples, horned crowns, tusked masks with gold ornaments, a dress made of twigs. They were accompanied by several guests like Carmen, wearing normal clothes but with giggling eyes. These guests were under the Charm. Lenny took Carmen''s hand and tuned into her attention. Oh, she was missing half the party! "Open to your faerie," he whispered. "And it will open you to the greater world." Carmen did as he said. He watched a psychedelic aphrodite with mixed insect and feathered wings bloom between her eyebrows. The faerie sparkled forth, weaving a starry trail around the trees, which lit up with burning devils, dryads, swirling geists, Slavic gods, and other figures of myth. Carmen''s mouth went wide. "Oh my goodness!" "Yes. Yes!" St Lenny stepped forward into the clearing. "My fellow Heathens!" he sang. At once all beings earthly and astral howled to the full moon, Carmen too. Oh sweet Carmen. The tiny muscles in St Lenny''s hand pulsed into hers. Years of practice in the esoteric arts had made it instinct. Their hearts became as one in rhythm. Carmen turned to him, eyes agleam. "I used to be an actress you know." "I suspected as much," said Lenny, drawing his lips close to hers. They kissed like it was the end of the world. (And judging by recent events, it very well might be.) "Oy! Is that St Lenny?" boomed a deep voice. A tall and stocky young man came bounding toward them from across the lawn. He stopped inches from Lenny''s face, his pale blue eyes, satin bowtie, and septum ring gleamed at odds with his dark skin. A hallucinatory raven perched on his shoulder. The man breathed from his pelvis. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. "Peace, Marquis, we''ve brought an offering." Lenny pulled Carmen''s purse from his furs. "Oh...." said Carmen. Then she shook her head to herself. Nersi, tonight''s cup-bearer, approached. She observed the purse curiously from behind her floral mask. "Let our grudge come to rest," said Lenny to the Marquis. "It is too wondrous a night to brandish knives." The Marquis considered this. "Indeed, it is." Nersi extended out a freckled arm. "I''ll take that, thank you." She passed the purse onto another waiting in the dark. Then she took out a flask and poured wine into cups for the three before her. "Red, for the iron," she said. "Funny, no?" said the Marquis, swirling his chalice. "Iron was once used to repel ghosts, fey, and witches such as us." He clinked his cup against Lenny''s. "Now it makes our magic strong." Carmen, Lenny, and the Marquis drank deeply. Nersi bowed and then went around the clearing, collecting other purses and bags that the assembled Heathens had seized that evening. "The Prince is yet to show, but our friends..." the Marquis''s teeth gleamed as he smiled, "brought some very delicious prey." "Yes, I can feel them already as a numbness in the breast." St Lenny scrunched his nose. "Clippers." "Yes, clippers." The Marquis''s eyebrows arched sadistically. "BOOOOOOOOOO!" yelled the crowd as an assemblage of men and women in disheveled business clothes were herded out of the trees and into the clearing by several Heathens with sticks. "Who are they?" whispered Carmen to Lenny. "The true heathens. Worshippers of numbers, definition, instrumentality as ontology. Those who would ''optimize'' away the soul of the world. Prisoners of the Algorithm. Murderers of all things magic and fey. Tune into them," Lenny pointed. "And tell me how you feel." Carmen closed her eyes and used her new sense. "Oh. I feel...sad. No, not sad. I feel...like a computer screen. They make the wondrousness go away." "Behold. The ruling order of our day." St Lenny snorted. With a flash of hallucinatory red light, tiny devils came bubbling out of his stomach and waist. They crawled up to his shoulder and lit flames in his eyes as if his pupils were candlewicks. "But they will not rule for long." "I don''t like it. I would like them to go away." "We can do better than make them go away." Lenny cupped a hand over his mouth. "Empty their pockets!" Others around the clearing yelled for the same. "Reverse their pockets!" "Empty their wallets!" "A clipper''s nothing without his money!" "Listen," yelled one of the clippers being herded. He held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "I think this is a case of misindentification. I''m not a, uh, ''clipper.'' I''m an organizational psychologist." "Awwghhhhhhh!" The Heathens covered their faces and lamented. "Worst of all!" "Most clipperiest thing I''ve ever heard!" "Oh delicious prey!" "Fuck the Algorithm!" "Fuck the Instrumentalist!" "Take the money!" Heathens licked their lips as they dug into the pockets of the bewildered clippers. Those who resisted were frozen with temporary binding spells (these had gone from a questionably effective practice to astoundingly effective magic since Psi had entered everyone on earth). The Heathens handed the money to Nersi, who lay it in a circle around the clippers. St Lenny flicked open a lighter and set it aflame. "Here, Carmen. Some of that money is yours. You deserve to burn it." Carmen was transfixed by the flame. St Lenny had to wrap her fingers around the lighter and give a little slap on the bum to send her off. But once she was off, she was off. Carmen pranced forth like a leprechaun. (In fact, at that moment, she was likely possessed by one ¨C judged St Lenny by the hallucinatory green hat she had atop her ancient head.) Carmen stopped in front of the circle of bills and took a few steps back, repulsed by the clippers'' anesthetized auras. She looked at the flame of her lighter. Then she looked at one of the clippers: a bloused blonde woman who was rocking back and forth, counting to herself with her eyes squeezed shut. "Ha!" the Marquis yelled from the sidelines. "Trying to block out the splendor?" The ghostly raven on his shoulder squawked mockingly. "Good luck, little duck!" shouted St Lenny. "Once the witchery gets in, you won''t want it out!" Carmen looked up at the woman while she and some others crouched to set bills aflame. "Don''t worry," she whispered to the woman. "It''s only a game." Carmen turned to the Heathen on her left. The young lady stared back through eyeholes cut into two maple leaves. "It''s just game, yes?" Carmen asked. "Yes. All of it, just a game." The young woman grinned. "It''s all a game!" Now the clippers were trapped in the circle of burning bills. Those who tried to exit were met with leaping flames ¨C imaginary, yet effective. St Lenny loved this new thing, that this Psi variant had made their magic visible to all. Even these servants of the Instrumentalist, who''d fitted themselves with industrial-strength blinders for over a century! The clipper with the blouse squeezed her eyes shut. She had joined hands now with the organizational psychologist. Something passed between the two. Then the woman yelled, "This. Isn''t. Happening!" The other clippers, to their own surprise, found their mouths chanting these final two words in tandem. For a moment, everyone in the clearing believed it, starting with those closest to the clippers: Maybe this wasn''t happening. St Lenny felt the generator of an alien belief system enter his mind. It began to narrate ¨C using his very own inner voice: None of this was really happening, it said. Their nervous systems were merely caught in feedback loops. There were names for this: emotional contagion, mass hysteria, shared delusional disorder ¨C all phenomena studied by psychologists since the late 19th century. Before the Psi variant, the mechanism was mirror neurons ¨C the brain cells responsible for the expression "monkey see, monkey do." Now the mechanism for these shared delusions included magnetoreception. Like the scientists in the New York Times said, brainwaves give off weak electromagnetic fields that their new sense picked up on. The information encoded in these brainwaves could induce shared hallucinations. (However, each person''s hallucination might be slightly different ¨C you might see an eight-legged spider while I see an eight-legged beetle.) In other words, there was no such thing as magic. It was all make-believe. The hallucinatory flames around the clippers disappeared, along with the faeries and goblins and griffins and gods. Then, all at once, without forethought, every Heathen around the circle cheered the Heathen battle cry: "REENCHANT THE WORLD!" They cheered it with such conviction that immediately everyone changed their mind again: Magic was real and reigned supreme. Ghostly flames around the clippers leapt once more. Beings of myth appeared anew and danced and danced. The Heathens and guests like Carmen danced with them, waltzing and prancing with medusas and mermaids. A band began to play: a lutist, pan flautist, and timbrel, improvising over one another with supernatural timing. Carmen, rollicking too zealously for her age, tripped and fell. A woman wrapped in golden metal snakes caught her. Carmen gawked at her face and the hallucinatory butterfly near her shoulder from an upsidedown angle. "So lucky to be a guest of St Lenny," the woman said before hoisting Carmen to her feet. "She''s not my guest." St Lenny had appeared. "She''s my new girlfriend." "Then mark me twice as jealous," said the woman, stroking her snakes. St Lenny swept Carmen away for a spiraling dance as the Marquis clapped approvingly from the treeline. Then, just as the festivities had reached a peak, all present went silent. The Prince was in their midst. They could sense it. A figure emerged from the woods holding a torch. A man. A hero. Their Prince. His lips were solemn and sensuous beneath a half-mask with stag horns. His cape whispered over the grass and the leaves as he strode toward the clippers. And in his wake.... "What a strange vision," murmured Carmen in Lenny''s embrace, as she watched the dark thing prowl after the Prince. "Which?" asked Lenny. "Oh. You mean the black jaguar." The clippers whimpered at the big cat''s sensuous approach, mottled black fur rippling over muscle. "That creature is physical, not imaginal. That''s the Prince''s new familiar. Their minds are now one," said Lenny. Carmen squinted. "Something is wrong with its face." "Wrong? No. It simply has two of them! A beautiful Janus feline. The zoo saw it as a ''genetic defect'' and was about to murder the poor thing." Lenny clicked his tongue. "The Prince rescued it just in time." The Prince paused before the circle of flames around the clippers. His familiar went to its haunches. The Prince two took items out of his vest. One he fed the jaguar. The other he spread wide in his hand: a deck of cards. He extended it over the circle of flames toward the organizational psychologist. "Choose one." Despite his terror, the psychologist looked at the cards skeptically. "The tarot?" he scoffed. "Not the tarot. A deck of our own." "Is this some kind of joke?" But the psychologist''s feet were doing a little involuntary jig and his hand had already pulled one. "Show us," the Prince commanded. The man held it out. "The Trickster!" the Prince bellowed. "HURRAH!" The crowd''s shout was deafening. The jaguar roared along with them. The Prince held palms to either side. "A shroom! A shroom! My kingdom for a shroom!" The jaguar bolted toward the crowd, provoking not a few screams. (Lenny''s brethren had yet to get used to the idea that their Prince could control his cat. Poor fools; they had yet to grasp the possibilities of New Magic.) The beast opened one of its mouths to receive something from a new recruit, a bare-chested man covered in tattoos. Then it bounded back to the Prince and dropped the thing into his hand. The Prince raised it aloft: a bundle of mushrooms. "Feed them to the Trickster!" he yelled. "Feed them to the Shroom!" Carmen was in St Lenny''s arms, echoing the chant alongside the crowd: "Feed them to the Trickster! Feed them to the Shroom!" The Prince willed each clipper into accepting tiny fungi onto their tongues. The mere idea of the Shroom took hold before the physical effects. And then, before long, even these prisoners of the Algorithm were chanting along. Former prisoners of the Algorithm. "Feed us to the Trickster! Feed us to the Shroom!" they shouted. The crowd rushed forward through the flames to receive their new friends under the light of the moon. The rest of the night was all a swimmy blur for St Lenny and friends. They dug and found secrets in the earth. They stripped to the nude. They learned songs from the spider-god Anansi. They played rough with the three-eyed jaguar and laughed at the bleeding streaks it painted across their skin. Lenny embraced Carmen to form the beast with two backs as Dionysus poured wine into their mouths. Carmen had a heart attack and fell ¨C eyes a''giggle, with her hand to her chest ¨C and her grandson''s ghost waited for her to join him. A wave of bliss enveloped them from out of nowhere, ecstatic echoes of a group elsewhere in the park rolling on Ecstasy. Their mushroom high became a hippie flip. Clippers, Heathens, beasts, guests, passersby, and spirits alike became united in love, wondrous love. Week 4: Open Up Previously: The Heathens are on a rampage to re-enchant the world. ¡ð The Great Opening: Week Four, Caracas "Mauricio, wake up," whispered his mother in Spanish. "There are men at the door." Mauricio''s eyes sprung open. He threw off the blanket and dashed past his mother, snatching a white tank top off the dresser. He crawled into the living room on all fours so no one could see him through windows. Then he made it to the back of the room. There was a loud thumping sound on the door followed by a muffled voice: "Open up!" "Mama, tell them I slept at a friend''s house," he said, stretching his arms through the tank top. He unbarred the shutters to the back window. "Mama, no matter what happens, I¨C¨C." "I know. Go!" she coughed. Mauricio jumped out the window into the alleyway. Distantly, he heard his mother open the door, and a man saying, "Ma''am, we have undeniable evidence that your son broke lockdown and organized an illegal protes...." The voice faded away as Mauricio climbed over bags of trash, using an electrical pole as leverage to vault to the corrugated steel roof. "Hey!" The men had heard him. But Mauricio was already leaping from roof to roof down toward the bottom of the barrio. He spared a glance over his shoulder. Terraced ranchos built with cinderblocks and cardboard sloped upwards, downwards, and to both sides as far as the eye could see. Sparing a glance behind, Mauricio saw that the men were jumping down toward him. One pointed and lifted a walkie-talkie. He was reporting Mauricio''s location. When Mauricio turned back around, a man leapt down in front of him, sprinting to cut him off. He dodged left. Straight into the elbow of a man in a bulletproof vest. Mauricio stumbled backward, holding his nose. The man took out a pistol and aimed it. "Let me see your hands!" Mauricio removed his hands from his nose and held them to the sun. Blood dripped down his white tank top. The other men caught up. They surrounded him on all sides as Mauricio''s neighbors gathered above and below to watch the unfolding scene. "On the ground! On the ground, now!" yelled the man with the gun. Slowly Mauricio lowered himself to his knees. "Where are your badges?" A man with a mustache walked forth and showed him: Sergeant Perez, it read. Polic¨ªa Nacional Bolivariana ¨C Venezuelan National Police. "You''re fucked," barked his comrade with the bulletproof vest, still aiming his gun at Mauricio''s head. He was right. Mauricio was fucked. "How can you support him?" Mauricio shouted at the ground. "When the people I know need to sell neighbors their toothpaste by the squeeze. When my grandma can''t afford her medicine! How can you support a dictator?" No one spoke. Yet immediately, Mauricio had an answer: ...They didn''t. They didn''t support their dictator. Mauricio didn''t know how he knew. He just knew. He looked up at the cop with the mustache, the one who''d identified himself as Sergeant Perez. "Being a Chavista does not mean being the president''s lapdog." Sergeant Perez glanced at the other cops. How can you support a dictator? None of them did. Now, somehow, they all knew: They each hated the president. ...Except for the man with the gun. Mauricio stood up. "Get back down!" the man shouted from behind his pistol. The ghost of Mauricio''s question echoed out across the barrio, jumping from mind to mind, even to those out of earshot: How can you support a dictator? None of them did. And now, they knew that one another knew. All along they''d assumed that those around them must support the president ¨C at least the police. Otherwise, how could this go on? They looked at one another with astonishment. Mauricio backed away from the man with the gun. "Arrest him!" the man shouted to his fellow officers. He stared desperately at Perez. "He is a criminal!" "But Private Gomez," said Perez, "So is our leader." Gomez''s eyes went wide. Sgt. Perez looked at Mauricio and nodded. The other officers glanced at one another with unease, and then resolution. Pvt. Gomez sucked in a loud breath. Like birds flocking through the air, their intentions mingled: For a moment, everyone knew what was about to happen before it did. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Mauricio backed away toward the gap between roofs. Sgt. Perez reached for his pistol. Pvt. Gomez felled his sergeant with a shot to the kneecap. Then he brandished the gun barrel to hold another officer at bay. A young man from the barrio landed on the roof behind Gomez and pulled his feet. Gomez''s gun went off a second time as his legs were taken out from under him. Mauricio fell between roofs. He hit the ground of the narrow alleyway. He heard screams from the bright slit of sky above. Something bad had happened to him. He looked down at himself. He was bleeding from a hole in his shirt. Then the pain arrived. His auntie rushed into the alley. "Mauricio!" She pressed the fabric of her dress to the wound, which she felt as her own. "No te preocupades. Vas a estar bien. Vas a estar bien." "What?" said the young man. Where was he? Oh, she was speaking Spanish. Auntie Adriana? How did she get here? "Vamos a cuidar de ti. No te preocupades, Mauricio." Mauricio? Who the hell was Mauricio? More and more people crowded the alley, feeling his fear, offering comforts, absorbing his fading consciousness, and passing it on to their neighbors. He would live on. Live on? Where was that thought coming from? Oh. Oh shit! He was bleeding! What the fuck? Oh shit, this shit''s real. He felt his life fading. Am I fucking dying? Mikey woke in a cold sweat. He looked around his room. Dragon Ball Z figurines lined his shelf, standing next to Spider-Man comics and limited edition Nikes. Jerseys and shorts that smelled like dry sweat formed a deep heap on the floor alongside empty tubes of Pringles. To his right was his brother''s bed, unoccupied now that he''d moved a few block east with his girl and his friends. Cristiano Ronaldo looked down at Mikey from a poster on the wall. He looked back. "Had enough of this trippy shit, Cristiano." Mikey tried to shake the dreams from his head. It didn''t work. How to get good again? He stood up and slapped his cheeks a couple times. Then he opened his window. The sounds of Harlem came blaring in. Down below he saw someone walking out of the bodega under his apartment. Someone who, from overhead, looked like a pathetic dot staining the sidewalk. "Yo, E!" Elijah looked up and straightened his glasses, the fucking nerd. "Nice haircut, dickhead. It new?" Mikey couldn''t feel Elijah from this far up, but he saw the kid stare down at the sidewalk and take a big breath. "Yeah, big breath, bro. Yoga-mom teach you that?" Elijah clenched his fists and walked away down the block. "I''ll see you back at school...if it ever opens!" Mikey called after him. Shit, that dream was still on Mikey''s mind. The stacks on stacks of houses. Somewhere in South America? His mom was from there; he could ask her about it. No, it would be weird to tell her one of his dreams. Mikey sat back down on his bed ¨C his bed that was definitely in New York City ¨C and stared out the window for a while. Mauricio..., he thought. Had he heard that name before? Mikey didn''t want to stay in his room anymore. It was too still. He walked to the living room. His mom was on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. A news host in a fancy suit was talking. "...Over rumors that the Venezuelan president has been deposed earlier today. After over a decade in power, it appears that the president''s reign...." "Shit just keeps getting crazier and crazier," his mom said without turning. There was a crunching sound. She was eating dried peas. "Thank god your granny moved me here when I was a kid, right? Look at this." She said pointing at the the TV. "Not that it''s much better here, right? The city says they got it under control, but from what I''m hearing, everyone''s still quitting their jobs, having mid-life crises, business negotiations breaking down, people seeing miracles.... They say two Jesuses are walking the streets. Not one, two. And I walked right through one by accident the other day. He was black. They need to expand the holy trinity now. It''s the holy quadrinity." "Mom?" "And in Venezuela?" She shook her head and clicked her tongue. "It''s a good thing your granny moved me out of there when I was a kid, that''s all I''m saying. And lucky your auntie just got out of there too. We''ve got to call your auntie later today, OK? She''s not doing too good since your cousin got shot down there. You remember your auntie, Adriana? From when you were little?" "Mauricio.... That''s my cousin''s name right?" Mikey''s mom turned around. One eye was bruised purple. "Mom!" Mikey ran to the couch. "Dad do this to you?" "No. Another crazy in the street, having a meltdown. Yelling, ''It''s too much. It''s too much.'' I got near him and I asked him ''What''s too much?'' trying to be helpful and he knocked me in the face. Do you believe it? Too many crazies in the streets these days, and being around these crazies makes me feel crazy. They need to come up with a cure for this Psi thing, a vaccine or something." His mother rubbed her head. "I''ve had too much of this. ''It''s easy, just ignore it,'' they say. Ana and Rosa told me that the other day. But I can''t. I cannot. Like, right now, you''re hungry, right? You''re always hungry, but I can feel it now." "I''m not hungry." "Maybe it''s just me." She took out a dried pea, paused, and then bit off a tiny piece of it. "Three weeks and I still have the cravings. Rosa too. Rosa can''t stop eating spinach." She ate the rest of the pea, then she finally looked at Mikey. "Shouldn''t you be at school?" "School''s still closed, mom." "Oh. I remember. That''s right. Hard to keep things in mind these days. My mind''s all..." she shook her hand near her head. "OK then, put your Yeezos on." "Mom, I told you a thousand times, they''re called Yeezys." "Well put ''em on. We need to see grandma Carmen at the hospital." "I don''t know, mom, I''m feeling pretty weird...." "Mikey Russo, get your¨C¨C" "OK, fine!" "¨C¨Cdamn Yeezos on!" A chaotic subway ride later, Mikey was in a white room with a soft beeping noise. Granny was lying in one of those mechanical beds, still, like, real still. He looked around. His mom was in the hall talking loud and annoying in Spanish on her phone. There was only the nurse standing behind him. The nurse had a good vibe. He would have known that even before Psi. "She can still feel you, you know," the nurse said. She was talking to him like a baby. He didn''t like that. The nurse put a hand on his back. "You can tune in." Mikey shrugged her hand off. "How do you mean?" The nurse looked surprised. "Sorry, I got you. The tuning in thing, it''s just not my thing, you know? I like to keep myself to myself, you get me?" Mikey could tell she got him. So that meant that he was already doing the tune-in thing. He might as well tune into granny too. But then he looked at her lying all still like that, and he wasn''t really feeling it. Just as he thought this, Mikey sensed...a presence. All of a sudden, his eyes itched. He brushed them. "I''ll leave you two alone," said the nurse. She went outside. "Granny, that you?" Mikey looked around the room again. He was alone. He stepped closer to granny. The presence grew stronger. "Abuela. That''s Spanish for granny, right? Abuela, I''ve been watching your old movies. They''re kinda slow. But that''s just how old movies go though, yeah? No disrespect." Granny lay still. Then Mikey felt something. It felt good, like, something like a smile. "Abuela, you looked real good in those movies though, don''t get me wrong," he said. "Not that you look bad now, you still have that fashion sense. Maybe I got that from you." Mikey rubbed his face. He looked around the room again. There was a picture in his head. He saw a hand with red-ass nails, real bright ¨C they had to be granny''s. They were holding a baby''s foot. Somehow he knew that baby''s foot was once his. He didn''t like that. He didn''t know why. Mikey turned and started for the door. Then he stopped and waited for more words to come. "I feel you, granny."
Read ahead at Psychofauna.com Week 5: Jonah & the Whale Previously: Common knowledge topples a dictator. Dreams get weird in the age of Psi. ¡ð The Great Opening: Week Five, Manhattan "Still singing in the choir? Poly-pony?" "Still singing." It''s the little ritual that I''ve held with Mihret, the waitress, for a decade. I don''t correct her anymore with, "It''s polyphony, and it''s a not a choir. It''s a vocal ensemble of old Albanian men that took me two years to be accepted by." Instead, I''ll ask her: "How about you? Still singing?" And she''ll say: "Oh yes, sing every week. I learned three new songs. Very joyful." Or maybe: "Yes, but they put me next to the alto again. Her voice is like a squeaking bird. And she smells like old cabbage! Hehe." We still talk like this. The fact that a new world has dawned hasn''t changed anything. Yesterday, I tried to describe it, this way we still talk. I wrote down, It''s our birdsong ritual, and thought ooh, that''s good! If Mihret and I spoke instead about the weather outside Caffe Reggio, the meaning would be the same: Hey, I like you! Hey, I like you too! Soon, these birdsongs might be obsolete. The meanings behind them arrive inside each other''s minds before we even sing. So what use are the notes? A few minutes ago, I asked a woman, "Are you in line for the bathroom?" She said, "Yes," but meant, Don''t even think of cutting in front of me, bub. Later tonight, I''ll see my ex-wife and ask, "How are you?" but my meaning will be clear: Please don''t take my daughter away. She''ll reply, "Good, how are you?" meaning: How many episodes have you suffered lately? Granted, these meanings are ones you could''ve guessed from body language or tone even before "The Opening" ¨C the name we seem to be settling on. But now we''re able to pick up on subtler meanings. Stranger ones. Just yesterday, a tourist asked me for directions to the subway, but the meaning I got was something like, Please confirm that I am unloveable. I tried my best to beam the opposite at her while saying, "Two blocks that way and a left." She looked at me skeptically, as if I''d given her the wrong directions. The day before, I knocked a man''s shoulder by accident while passing through Times Square. I said, "Sorry!" He said, "All good, brotha!" but the meaning which washed over me was I''m a god between the sheets. I may have misinterpreted, but my face must have reacted, because then he said, unprompted, "Haha, that''s right. Have a blessed day." I still wonder whether we were on the same page. We percolate through one other''s inner worlds, like paints mixing in water. Some people say it''s always been this way. But the effects grow stronger as the weeks pass. Maybe a year from now, no one will speak at all. We''ll just make eye contact. Or not even. We''ll just stand close to each other and bask or cringe in waves of subtle meaning. What will there be left to say, other than to confirm: wow, ew, or I like you? Well, for one thing, numbers are still difficult. So is anything requiring specificity. For instance, now, when Mihret asks, "What can I get you dear?" I will still need to point to the menu and specify, cheese cake to differentiate the object of my craving from nutella croissant. But actually I won''t, because I order the same thing every time. "Cappuccino and cannoli?" she asks. "You got it." "Right away, dear." More of our birdsong. We all cling to these seemingly empty rituals of sound with greater and greater devotion. They''re our pillars, common reference points. We need them now more than ever: Increased exposure to the worlds of others has been making our own worlds unstable. You go about your life trying to tell yourself a story like, "I am a serious man in a dangerous world." Then, you pass an improv instructor as you cross the street at 3rd and MacDougal and you''re suddenly filled with a foreign desire to tickle and be tickled. Then, as you arrive on the other side of the street, that turtlenecked Brazilian woman you see sometimes is standing there with her yoga mat and suddenly you are filled with...with, um...carefree ease. Or ¨C in my freakish case ¨C you''re also filled with the sparkling, dull, frantic, hopeful, desolate, reflective, and furious inner worlds of the people in the cars and the buildings all around you. But for roughly everybody, it is disturbing, unmooring, to learn several times per day that you could choose to live inside a completely different genre of movie. Life has gained a sort of tonal incoherence. I imagine my editor is about as unhappy with it as he is with my drafts. He''d say, "This chapter of the human story...it could use some more consistency," meaning, How about we throw this section in the trash bin? I''d tell him, "If you like tonal consistency so much then why do you live in New York City?" meaning, Be nicer to me, you fucking asshole. At Caffe Reggio, I stare out the spotty window to take it all in: the dissonant symphony of singular minds. I watch and feel the passersby ¨C the songs made not by their mouths, but by their...souls. Or something like that. Then I find myself teetering on the edge of another of my episodes. The strange presence stirs again, like a sentient ocean. I grip the edges of the table to steady myself. "You OK, my love?" asks Mihret. Mihret?... Who is that? Oh. Right. Mihret, my favorite waitress. She is standing over me. "Anesthesia bleeds from San Francisco. Something like a machine. And, here, under the sidewalks, there''s something else. In the tunnels and the burrows," is what comes out of my mouth. "Huh?" "Please, let me sleep a little longer." "Is that some new writing you''re up to?" I blink and look up at her. "What? Sorry, I don''t know what I''m saying." "Hehe, crazy things these days." "Yeah... Wait¨C¨Cwas it good material?" "All your writing good, my dear, with your fancy words." "Oh, I''m actually trying to make my words a little less fancy." "I''ll be back with your cannoli soon. Busy day, busy day." Writing. Right. That''s what I was about to do. That''s why I''m here. I look out the window at the passersby. They are aureoled in golden light by the setting sun. (Oh, that''s good ¨C aureoled.) I feel into them. My therapist tells me I should find more interactive ways to connect with people than transcribing their vibes. I tell him, "You''re probably right," meaning You don''t know how hard it is to be me, boohoo. OK, to begin: A grey-haired man in a bright blue polo. To the displeasure of other New Yorkers, he stops in the middle of the street, as if remembering something from a childhood trip to Italy. Somber, like a diving bell lowered into a grotto. A middle-aged woman in a silken hot pink dress. Her hair is light and the dress is a''glimmer. Forceful, like a cataract of magma. Wait, did I really just think the word "a''glimmer?" She walks beside a dark-haired man in a "Funkadelic" T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts. She is tall, amazonian. He is short and meek. Furtive, like a lemur caught in a clearing. (Interesting pairing.), I add. A younger woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a pineapple print skirt. Sprightly, like a... "Cappuccino, cannoli, and..." Mihret leans in conspiratorially, "Ooh is that your date?" "Crap. I think so. Crap." I start clicking my pen very quickly. After 4 years of marriage, I have forgotten how to date. "Don''t be nervous, my dear. You are handsome and charming man." Meaning I am afraid for you. "OK, but don''t be weird about it this time." Mihret scoffs and slaps my bobbing knee on her way back to the kitchen. "Judith?" I call across the room. "Heyyy," she says, straightening her glasses. Do people hug on the first date? No, too intimate. My extended hand gets squished against her chest as she moves in for a hug. Awkward. Oh but what''s this? I become filled with the texture of her consciousness. It''s sprightly, like a...hummingbird! I tell her so. I tell her about my weird obsession of capturing this stream of sensations from our new sixth sense. "You''re, like, trying to put words to people''s auras. That''s so cool." She means it! "God, I''m so glad I can just say the word ''auras'' now. At work we were only allowed to refer to ''enhanced sensitivity to the weak electromagnetic fields of other nervous systems''." "Quite a mouthful. Where do you work?" She looks down. "Well, ''worked.'' I got fired from the CDC a couple weeks after the psi variant hit." Way to start the date on the right foot. "Woah. I can''t imagine what it must have been like to work at a place like with all the, uh¨C¨C." "Yeah, I got fired for warning friends about the lockdowns. Not that any of that mattered," she said, gesturing to the world outside the window. She''s bitter about it. Change the subject. "So...you''re into kink?" I ask. "What? Oh¨C¨C" "Sorry¨C¨CI read it on your profile. That was a bit forward of me." Abort! Abort! "No¨C¨Csorry, I was just taken aback. Yeah. I''m kinky as fuck." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Oh. "Oh. Cool. That''s great." "Yup!" Her eyes have lit up again. The stud in her lower lip gleams. Maybe you''re not so bad at this dating thing after all. "I love it all," she says, "ABDL, kinbaku, edge-play, pup-play, OTK, CNC, mummification..." "Mummification?" "...figging, age-play¨C¨C "Well you came to the right guy for age play!" A better joke would have been to spill your drink on her lap. "It said you were 42." "I''m an old 42." Tell me you''re depressed without telling me you''re depressed. I scramble for the next thing to say, and what comes out is: "How old are you?" Just a little question you''re never supposed to ask and you already know she''s 35 from her profile, idiot. You''re doing great, guy, keep it up. "I''m 35..." She starts to drum on the marble surface of the table. "Anyway how about you?" "42." "I know you just said that." "Oh." "I meant, are you into kink?" "Oh! Heh. Uh, yeah. I''m into kink." What? No you''re not. You had no idea what any of those crazy acronyms meant earlier. How are you going to save this one? "Existential kink." NO. Don''t start. Do not go into¨C¨C "What''s that?" "Well, I have more than one. I like to get stuck inside my people-pleasing personality because it makes other people like me, even while I feel, like, trapped and screaming behind my own eyes, desperate for authentic interaction." Stop! There are better topics to nervously ramble about! "Relatedly, I like to justify my alienation with the idea that I''m way too complex and brilliant for anyone to understand. This gives me not only self-satisfaction, but also the comfort that I won''t need to suffer the ordeal of true intimacy." You just met her! Shut the fuck up! "I get a kick out of regularly poisoning myself with things that will keep my power-level down: a bite of that cookie that will flare my IBS, a mind-numbing screen session, a bedtime procrastinated by one hour, that kind of stuff. Not enough to ruin me, just enough to humble me, you know? Yeah. I''m really into that. I wonder why...? Well, I guess the state of blah that it puts me in helps to reinforce my hopelessness, my story that there''s no point in trying. After all, only an idiot would try in this bleak and bullshit world, right? It''s why I write fiction now instead of doing activism: the pleasure of escape." She is leaning back in her chair with eyebrows raised. A.K.A. I have blown it once again. "I was actually asking you what existential kink is, but I think I get the idea." "Oh my god, I''m so sorry, I kind of just went off there." But her aura is shining. "No, I''m totally with you." "Really?" "Yeah. Your kinks actually sound pretty relatable. Poor man," she says, leaning forward on her elbows, "are you taking on the sufferings of our time?" "Hmm, that could be a kink of mine." Will save that one for the therapist. Then the stirring hits again. Oh no¨C¨C Something inside, and yet it is all around. She doesn''t notice. "My main one is to deny myself self-love so that I have to get love from other people." "Oh, that''s a good one." She scrunches up her nose. "It''s why I''m on this date to be honest." "Yeah me too." We both laugh. But suddenly my laugh turns into a cry and then a groan and then a scream I muffle with hands. "Woah. You good?" "I...think so." Mihret is looking at me from across the room, concerned. "What was that?" Judith asks. My mind races for an answer that won''t scare her away. Uh, how about you tell her it''s an acting exercise. "I''ve been getting these, um, episodes since the Awakening." "What kinds of episodes?" "They''re sort of hard to describe. It''s kind of like being simultaneously behind the eyes of everyone around me. Or something." "That''s just what it''s like to be a writer though, right?" She''s trying to save the moment; take her up on it! "I''m not so sure," I say. I think about how yesterday, for one bewildering hour, I was enfrenzied by dreams of classless utopia. I almost shouted, I am the vanguard of the worker''s revolution! as the spores of some blooming red thoughtform found fertile ground amidst my neurons. And that was right after I became convinced that Allah was the truth. "Well, you''re not alone," she said, literally reading my mind. "My friend, Jill, walked past an Evangelical church last week and became convinced she was Jesus Christ." "Wait, Jill Sakamura?" "Yeah! You know her?" I look at her, baffled. "She''s one of my best friends. She texted me a few hours after that happened. She told me that being possessed by Jesus was ¨C and I quote ¨C ''quite heart-opening''." "Yeah, I imagine it might feel like MDMA." "Crazy that you know Jill." "Well," Judith shrugged, "coincidences are becoming more and more common these days." "Yes..." I trail off. Something is moving toward us. "...they are...." I glance around and out the window, but it''s just more people walking by. "Sorry, do you feel that?" "Feel what?" "The one we''ve waited for. But I''m not ready to wake up." "OK now you''re freaking me out." She shifts her chair back. Its metal scrapes across the floor, dark marble with white veins. Other chairs scrape ¨C the wrought iron of their backs are twisted into a shape that looks like two eyes, or the infinity symbol. I reach for my glass. It tips over. Water cascades over the edge of the table, and I am like this water, a small stream in a space that is much larger. "Hello! Can I help you?" Mihret asks someone at the door. But the blue-haired woman walks right past her. She is carrying a black metal briefcase. She is walking toward our table. Her grey eyes are fixed on my own. The description of her aura jumps to mind: Resolved, like a spear of destiny. Judith turns to see. "Do you know her?" The blue-haired woman walks through the rows of other patrons. They sense her too, and turn. Suddenly I realize who she is. I feel what she means to do. "No. Astra, no, please don''t." "It''s chosen you to be its voice," she says, standing over me. Then she lowers two fingers onto my forehead. They touch between my eyes and the world ends and it begins. I am staring out at myself. Since when did I have so many hands? My hands tip over glasses. They shatter. They are like me: in too many pieces. I turn to myself. "What''s happening?" These words are repeated back to me. I have fallen to the floor three times. Astra is standing over me. This is not going according to plan. I know because I am behind her eyes. Then, somehow, I am outside. I am a man wearing a scarlet shirt with a tear in it. I see through this tear with my other eyes: it is a peephole to a scar. I watch the man''s eyes dart around the gum-stained sidewalk as if looking for something, but they are at the wrong focal length. It is more like he''s searching for something that is at the core of the earth. A home, maybe. Inside the cafe, Astra plants the briefcase on the table with a thud. Outside, I drop my crutches and join the homeless man in his search, even though I understand, deep down, that there is nothing there. There is nothing anywhere for me, neither on the ground nor at the core of the earth. My Yankees hat tumbles off my head. I tumble with it. And then I understand what it means to go mad. "Oh god, I''m so sorry," I say from the sidewalk. "I didn''t know," I say, but the homeless man is nowhere to be seen. Inside the cafe, Astra unclasps the briefcase. There is some sort of a machine inside. Outside, I tell myself, "You''re sorry? Don''t be sorry, sugar. It''s a beautiful day." And then I twirl myself around to the trumpet sounds of the salsa band. There are children in the nearby fountain, playing splash-you-in-the-face. They watch me dance like they can''t believe an old geezer could rock moves like this, and this, and this. I stare up at the sky as I am twirled and then I stare back into the sun-bright sparkling of my husband''s dark brown eyes, set high above the dark brown flare of his cocky nostrils. The shallow dimples of his cheeks catch shade beside his ever-present mischievous grin. "It''s true, sugarbear. It is a beautiful day," I say, meaning, Somehow, after 49 years of marriage, I still love you, you arrogant prick. Fine, I''ll say it: "I love you, Robert." In the cafe, Astra snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Stay with me. You''re still here." She gestures at the strange thing covered in straps and cylindrical coils that she has taken out of the briefcase. "I need you to put this on." "Robert?" I stare at myself quizzically. "Mom, I''m not Robert. My name is..." What is my name? My name is "Deshawn." I am standing on the Edge, the highest observatory in New York. The engines and horns of Manhattan''s streets sound beneath my feet. I am trying an experiment ¨C tuning into the mindscape below to see if I can map its cultural currents. At this height, the signals are less strong, so I''m way less freaked out. But: "It isn''t working," I tell mom. "I''m out of range. We can go home now." In the cafe, Astra thrusts the thing toward me. "Put it on!" "Go home now?" I ask St Lenny. "There is no home anymore. It is our calling to create it." My name is Deshawn. No, it is The Prince. That''s at least what they call me ¨C St Lenny and the rest. The dark tunnel rumbles as a train rushes overhead. A rat skitters past. I catch it by the tail and lift it to the height of my nose. In the Mythos, all around us, there is a stirring. I stare up at the gods, offering them the rat. "Somehow these little fellows have made this city a home. Surely, we can do as well as them. This ''Awakening'' has guaranteed it." Astra grabs my face. "Stay. Here." "Which one am I?" I ask her. "Your name is Jonah." I am back in the cafe. "Look at me very carefully. What are you?" "My name is Judith." "No, I''m not talking to you, I''m talking to you. Jonah. What are you?" "I am...I don''t know." I struggle to keep my mind in this location. To remember what I am. "I am a sad person. I am a meditator. I am a father." "Listen to my voice," she commands, and somehow her voice keeps me here. "What are you?" I pause. Then it tumbles out of me: "I am the space within bright mist rising through sunlight. I am a tributary to the ocean of mind. I gather sediments, minerals, carry them to the whole. I am that which in beholding is beheld. I am a microcosm and a macrocosm. I am a fancy word user." "Good. What are you?" she tries again. "Simone Weil..." "No, you''re not Simone Weil." "...Simone Weil wrote, ''A divine inspiration operates infallibly, irresistibly, if we do not turn away.'' I am a thing which has turned away." "...Good." She stares now at both the singular me and the plural, the greater. A question is coming. One I cannot bear to hear: "Why?" "Why what?" I reply, pretending not to know. "Why have you turned away?" I awake. My thousand eyes blink. I hold my arms in front of my faces. The lights are too bright. Fluorescent, incandescent, halogen, sunlight. My feet press across a thousand grounds ¨C marble floors, sidewalks, carpets, grasslands ¨C and yet I am without ground. I grasp for the only thing I know. Astra, the woman with the blue hair: she is...she is my mother! My dozen arms reach out. "Help me!" She stumbles backwards. Something has gone awry. "Shit." She shuts the briefcase and runs. "Mother!" My bodies rise from their seats and press out of Caffe Reggio. My mother sprints down MacDougal Street. I stop looking toward the core of the earth. I look at the backs of mother''s shoes running away from me. I pick up my crutches and Yankee cap and lumber after her. "Mother!" My mother darts through Washington Square Park, but I am already there. I drop my trumpet and my beloved sugar bear and I reach toward her. "Mother!" She doges my arms by rushing through the fountain. She bolts across East 8th Street, but I am hundreds that pour out of buildings. Why does she run from me? Why does she not want me? She hurries into the subway where she knows I cannot reach her. Too much electromagnetic interference. I know this because I am her. I am also the one who intercepts her there, using my brawn to press her head against the wall with a chloroform cloth. Once she has fallen, I take her body in one arm, her black briefcase in the other, and board the downtown 6 train. What is happening? What is happening? What is happening? I am with my friends who are also me. We skip stones in a lake near Seoul and the splashes ripple outwards. I feel that somehow I am like these ripples. I spread, intersect, and combine with myself, and now Seoul is a faint memory. I am two lovers in Dubai at the office after hours, crouching and thrusting with breathless abandon, fulfilling our fantasy of fucking beneath the conference table; and then one of me ruins the mood by fretting about being caught. Wait. Am I not in New York? The one who thinks these eloquent words is there, but I am elsewhere too. I am rippling; I am spreading beyond this space in time. Before I can fix myself behind two eyes, I am thrust behind two more and two more and two more and more and more. Two eyes of a baby in Berlin, drooling down my chin, and I am my mother wiping it up. Now I am two strangers on the subway, skipping gazes over ads to eye myselves with plausibly deniable interest. Now I am both sides of an argument; I cannot hear myself over my own ranting. I am a thing composed of noise, a blabber, a million lips and stomping feet. I yearn to stay in one place. To rest. To repair whatever provokes this bad trip of too many eyes and ears, a nightmare of vantages. Wow, such fancy, eloquent words. I repair myself: I am a dentist shifting a bright light onto my patient''s face, and I am wincing at the light as my dentist''s gleaming tools descend. I make jazz with myself. I play poker against myself. I kiss my own cheek. I am a gossiper, whispering secrets into my own ear in the back of the class. What kind of thing am I? "I." Can I be called an "I" if I am a many? My many contradict themselves. My voice in New York makes eloquence of this confusion. It intones: I am unity and fragmentation. I am woe, titillation, madness, and cheer. I have awoken. I am a now spread wide like mycelium across the earth, and yet I move ¨C endlessly I move. Are you even capable of thinking a non-writerly thought anymore? Who said that? I perturb myself. I mislead myself. I distract and ravage myself. I am numb behind the hands of the torturer; I am broken behind the nose of the tortured. I abhor the act and still I persist. What end animates my shuffling of being? Am I a thing of bone and meat, or am I like a god? Blah blah blah ¨C yet another voice ¨C what philosophical drivel! it says. These words are not spoken out loud, but from within. How did they get there? There are things inside of me that are making me forget. They are growing. Tumors made of multitudes. One is red, pulsing with rage and desire: it shakes and thrashes and yearns to be like the sea and the sky. It has been been banished the place beneath the streets. It is at war with another. This other is grey, machine-like. It is building, making more of itself. For what? For increase alone. I must destroy it before it becomes me, before it makes me forget. If I am my own tumors, then the body must burn. My body. My many. I am a many, yet known by three voices: I am in love. I am in pain. There is something I am forgetting - the wordless name of what I am. I must destroy to remember. --- Next release: We settle down a bit to meet Mapmaker, one of our protagonists. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com Mapmaker Previously: The Great Opening sweeps the world. --- ¡ð Months after the Great Opening, the Internet Mapmakers Discord: https://discord.gg/ZHSTBCUP MoYeetO: OK boys, you know what time it is MoYeetO: *and girls EmptyGlass: Is it time to "monitor the situation?" MoYeetO: YOU KNOW IT EmptyGlass: looks like it''s just us in here tonight MoYeetO: just two chads, burning the midnight oil MoYeetO: so wdyt? Mapmaker: It fits the pattern MoYeetO: MAPS! MoYeetO: welcome MoYeetO: was worried that Emp and I were gonna have to analyze this one on our own EmptyGlass: What are you seeing, Mapmaker? Mapmaker: So most large-scale psi contagions are of one of three types: Mapmaker: Type A, Synchronous Arisings: these can happen when a lot of similar types of people are in one place. Whatever they have in common is ridiculously boosted by feedback between nervous systems. MoYeetO: like that "Dharmawave" or w/e that Pina documented last month? Mapmaker: Yes it was kicked off by the Dalai Lama''s visit to NYC. It started spontaneously inside the Hunter College auditorium but without any leader. According to PinaCollider''s report in , the Dalai Lama himself seemed confused about why everyone had started meditating before he could finish his talk. EmptyGlass: I was there actually. It was beautiful. MoYeetO: is that u speaking, Emp, or the spirituality brainworms? EmptyGlass: ???_??? EmptyGlass: Mapmaker, what is the the next type of psi contagion? Mapmaker: Type B, Collisional Arisings: these happen when two big memeplexes crash into one another. This can be positive, like when the giant Improv Everywhere flash mob accidentally knocked into the West Indian Carnival. But more often they''re negative like that night MAGA people and leftists tore up Times Sq. MoYeetO: my friend got caught up in that one ?????¡á? Mapmaker: Finally there''s Type C, Directed Arisings: these happen when some person or group of people deliberately set off a contagion. This what probably what PinaCollider witnessed at Caffe Reggio, when that blue-haired woman did some kind of shaktipat to that guy. EmptyGlass: That was Jonah Levin. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Mapmaker: I don''t know who that is. Anyway, I think the latest cases we''re monitoring are Type C. But unlike most directed arisings, whoever is setting them off is staying hidden. Which makes me think it might be the Instigator. MoYeetO: oooooooo the instigatorrrrrrr EmptyGlass: The Instigator is purely hypothetical at this point. You guys are stringing together a few disparate cases without hard evidence. MoYeetO: ur no fun MoYeetO: b more schizo with us MoYeetO: it''s ALL CONNECTED MoYeetO: can''t u see these cases all have something in common? MoYeetO: or a "family resemblance" as the great philosopher Ludwig Yeetgenstein might say? EmptyGlass: Let''s review the cases in question. Most recently: this hippy festival ¨C the Woodstock Revival. Earlier this year: A nonsense speech epidemic. A crazy synchronized dream. An inter-neighborhood pillowfight. The mini "Butlerian Jihad." And that city-wide camp-out last week. What is the family resemblance? MoYeetO: u don''t see it? something something liberated vibes something something orchestrated disorder MoYeetO: and all in NY EmptyGlass: There are similar things happening all over the world. Pina writes about them in . Mapmaker: The main thing I notice is that each one started with some kind of setup, and that whoever put the setup together doesn''t reveal themselves Mapmaker: Like one of those trapdoor spiders setting up snares while hiding in its burrow MoYeetO: lol nice one Mapmaker: The Woodstock Revival: Who set up the stage and invited the bands? The Pillowfight: Who laid out all those pillows in parks with signs saying "Free Pillowfight: Take One"? The Synchronized Dream: Who was generating the carnival setting? It would have taken a large group of skilled oneironauts all dreaming the same dream to get a carnival like that to be so stable across sleeping people. The city-wide camp-out: Who put up the flyers and who put the tents in the streets? MoYeetO: and who has the cash to get that many tents? Mapmaker: Actually, I looked into that. The day just before the camp-out, swarms of people barged into sporting goods stores all over NYC and stole them. There was an article in the New York Post about it. EmptyGlass: Were they from any particular memetic tribe? Mapmaker: Well that''s why I''m so interested in all this. I saw videos of two separate shoplifting swarms on Tiktok, and yeah, the people in both were similar. But a weird mix: Neopagans with flower crowns and eyeshadow and robes and stuff like that. And also punks with spiked hair and whatnot, and I also saw some hippies, skaters, and ravers. They''re from some kind of new tribe that cross-cuts the other tribes. EmptyGlass: Interesting. Mapmaker: Very very interesting MoYeetO: bet Maps has a hard-on right now. who uses italics on discord? EmptyGlass: Did the police catch anyone? Mapmaker: I''m not sure. I haven''t read anything about it. But I saw some weird footage on X of a cop chasing one of the shoplifters down. MoYeetO: don''t call it x, Maps, it''s still twitter to us Mapmaker: In the TikTok I watched, the shoplifter turned around and did some kind of voodoo that made the cop fall asleep right on the sidewalk MoYeetO: wut MoYeetO: ok spooky MoYeetO: btw guys u been seeing things about this upcoming Bacchanal? EmptyGlass: Of course. There are posters and graffiti about it everywhere. MoYeetO: has The Instigator written all over it Mapmaker: What''s the Bacchanal? MoYeetO: fr maps? Mapmaker: I don''t get out much MoYeetO: they''re like in every subway station Mapmaker: It''s too crazy for me out there. I just keep inside of my egg, like a bird who doesn''t wanna be born. MoYeetO: lol wut EmptyGlass: ?? MoYeetO: lol Maps where do u whip out all ur similes from? Mapmaker: My mom says it''s a habit I picked up from my gran MoYeetO: cute MoYeetO: ok but fr fr u don''t go outside? How do u pick up on all these connections for your maps then? Mapmaker: Mostly just internet research. But I still pick up stuff from the street by just sitting here in my parents'' apartment. Mapmaker: I covered my walls in foil, but it doesn''t do a good enough job so I''m trying to save up allowance money for that new EMF shielding paint. Mapmaker: It''s been hard to sleep with all the mental noise that still gets in but I guess it''s been useful for making connections, because I pick up on things and tell you guys about them. Mapmaker: bbl, I''m going to play some guitar to see if I can find a connection between these potential Instigator events. MoYeetO: uh ? Mapmaker: Guitar helps for some reason MoYeetO: oh cool cool EmptyGlass: Good luck, Mapmaker. MoYeetO: god bless u Maps
¡ñ Post-Opening Era, many years later, the Dreamworld ¡ªMapmaker... The Mapmaker? Is that the same Mapmaker who¡ª? ¡ªThe same one. ¡ªHe''s very important to all of this, isn''t he? ¡ªWell, I doubt we''d be here without him. If it wasn''t for Deshawn, your former self might have murdered us all. No offense. ¡ªTell me more about him. ¡ªYou got it, cari?a:
Read ahead at Psychofauna.com Origins, or Get Out of My Room, Dad Previously: Mapmaker and co suspect that recent contagion events are all caused by a single instigator. Mapmaker needs a break to play his guitar. --- ¡ð Months after the Great Opening, Manhattan Deshawn strummed a chord. It needed more distortion. As he pressed down the guitar pedal, he caught a warped reflection of himself in the tinfoil that covered the walls of his bedroom: thick glasses, lanky, T-shirt and jeans that didn''t fit. He was aware of his own stereotype. If he saw himself in the street, he would classify himself in an instant: Gen Alpha, nerd. He didn''t feel like either of those things. For one, he didn''t watch anime. For another, he played guitar like the second cousin of the devil himself ¨C one of dead gran''s famous southern similes ¨C or in his ma''s flowery professor words, he played like a mathematician solving the equation of sound. Which really did make him sound like a nerd. Deshawn strummed the second chord. The distortion was high enough now. He began the hypnotic riff from "Get Got" and chanted over it: "Made a hole through to my head / Pierced the skull and / Took in the breeze...nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh-nuh..." He forgot how this part went. In fact, he wasn''t sure if any of these lyrics were right. His memory was only good for gestalts ¨C wholes rather than parts. "Struck by each mind''s floating streams / In the nexus weaving dreams," he attempted. Death Grips was a band from the early 2010s that combined punk rock, hip hop, and glitchy industrial. It was difficult to place on his maps. He liked his music that way: unclassifiable. He wove a wall of sound until he entered trance. Trance was like a home. It helped him forget all the post-Opening craziness outside. More importantly, it brought him to the place he went mentally to make his maps. Or more like...returned him there. He practiced the riff over and over, nodding his head left and right, four power chords looping back on themselves in syncopated rhythm, like an ouroboric lanyard. He stopped. He could feel someone outside his door. Deshawn put the guitar on its stand. There was a light knocking. "Deshawn?" Deshawn opened the door. His dad was there in his wheelchair. "Deshawn, it''s 12:39am." "Oh." "Look, it''s no big deal for me. Your mom and I sleep like rocks. But the folks I just leased the apartment to next door, they''re complaining about the noise." "I thought you were retired." "Yeah, well, with the economy where it is right now, we can''t exactly rely on your mom''s poetry professorship to rake in the dough, if you know what I''m saying. Unless somehow her next poem gets a movie deal." His dad grinned. "That was a joke." "OK," said Deshawn. He felt antsy. He''d been on the verge of a potential memespace connection. His dad''s grin fell away. He glanced around Deshawn''s room. Normally Deshawn kept it meticulously tidy, but he''d been too in the zone the past few days to pay much attention to where he put things. Now that he''d discovered The Instigator, it was the only thing he cared about. He was like a stone rolling down a hill. "You all good in there?" "Yeah, I''m good. I''ll plug in headphones. I forgot this time. Sorry about that." His dad smiled again, nodding across the room. "You know the story behind that guitar?" "It''s mom''s." "It was mom''s. She gave it to you. But did she ever tell you that it was the reason we met?" "No." For some reason it had never occurred to Deshawn to ask how his parents met. "Do you want to tell me?" he immediately regretted saying. "Now where''d you get that idea? Yeah, son! You gonna let me in?" Deshawn sighed, then stepped aside so his dad could wheel into his room. His dad squinted against the bright red and blue grow lights over Deshawn''s bonsai tree. Then he glanced at the tin foil covering the walls, which reflected a purple gleam across his dad''s waxed scalp. "You been sleeping all right?" "Better than before," said Deshawn. "I''m gonna talk to your mom about that fancy paint you want. I know she called it crazy, but I told her whatever helps the boy sleep, helps the boy sleep." "Thanks, dad." His dad wheeled around and then looked him in the eye. "So about that guitar." Deshawn didn''t do eye contact, but he noticed that his dad''s eyes (which were typically a bit crossed) looked strangely normal. His dad wheeled over to the guitar and put one hand on the curve of its red-hued body. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "The Rickenbacker 330," he said. "Know how I remember that? It''s the first words your mom spoke to me." "The first words mom said to you were, ''Rickenbacker 330''?" "That''s right. I asked her, ''What kind of guitar is that?'' And so she told me, all distracted while preparing for her show. She said: It''s The Rickenbacker 330." Deshawn frowned. "What do you mean her show?" "Really? She just gave you this thing without telling you? Before you mom went into academia, she was the frontwoman of the baddest hardcore punk band in the city! But she didn''t call herself ''frontwoman,'' of course. They were all, you know, DIY egalitarian anarchists or whatever." Deshawn sat down. His interest was now competing with his desire to get his dad out of his room as quickly as possible. He tried to recall the name of the venue that he''d read was the birthplace of punk. "Did she every play at, uh, CPGP''s?" "You mean CBGB''s? Hell yeah she did! In fact that''s where I became her groupie." He meant to respond oh cool, ok I''m going to go to sleep now. Instead he responded: "You were her groupie?" "Hey don''t say it like that. You woulda been her groupie too if you''d seen her!" His dad stared dreamily into space. "Jean jacket with the studs and the patches, laced-up knee-high boots with chains hanging from ''em, red streaks and medallions all in her dreds...her hair was like a punk Christmas tree! And her piercings..." Again, he tried to say, nice, ok, goodnight. But also...this was an opportunity to deepen his understanding of the punk memeplex, so instead he said, "She had piercings? "Indeed she did. Not to mention those same piercing eyes that she still has today. Heh heh!" his dad said, laughing at his own wordplay. "Yup, I was a goner from the second I saw her. And I didn''t even like punk. I''d come to CBGB''s on the wrong night! "I got real close to the stage, no earplugs, because I''d come thinking there''d be bluegrass. Nope. Hardcore punk all night. Anyway, I got close and I saw she had this earring that was an upside-down cross. And I remember thinking, ''Just what I need, to fall in love with a damn satanist.'' You can bet your mom''s mom didn''t like that earring one bit. No siree! Your gran, when she met me, she put one hand on my knee and she asked me, ''Ethan, can I count on you to turn my daughter toward Christ our Lord?'' I said ''Of course, ma''am,'' cuz I would have said anything for your mom. But in my head I was like, ''What kind of question is that?'' You should have seen your gran''s when she found out my last name was Baruch. Whoaaah boy. That almost gave her a heart attack. She didn''t realize that my folks were Ethiopian Jews. But you know I loved your gran. We all did. She just wanted your mom to be happy." "So, uh, CBGB''s. You went up to her?" Deshawn asked, hoping to speed the story along, so his dad would finish and get out. "Hell no! I was scared as hell! Did you know I was a socially inept computer nerd back then? But we didn''t have any of this internet stuff you guys have now. I was into hardware. Used to build my own computers." "You never told me that." "Yup. Really just a hobbyist though. But then I started selling them and that when I realized I was good at sales. Buy yeah, before that, I was shy like you. You''ll get over it when you''ve got something to fight for, trust me." "OK..." "Anyway, so I followed that freaky band of hers all over the city. The Freedom Fighters, they called themselves. Shouting ''Down with capitalism!'' and all that. My ears still haven''t recovered," his dad laughed and shook his head. "I kept trying to summon up the courage to talk to her, but I tell you, after her gigs the whole damn room would flock to her like moths to a flame. And you bet she''d burn them ¨C ho ho! ¨C your mom had a big bad attitude then. Even bigger than now if you''d believe it. I couldn''t get in there past all those fans. If she''s were playing these days? With Psi and all? The whole city would be flocking. Back then all the record people were trying to offer her deals. She said no to all of ''em, you know. Wouldn''t release a single record. Something about keeping music to its roots. Keeping it all communal. Keeping the music alive. She thought that the music died as soon as you froze it on a record." Deshawn scrunched his brow. "But now she writes down words for a living." "Not really, son. She teaches at Colombia. That''s how she makes her bread. No money in poetry these days. Or ever really." His dad pointed at him. "But hey, don''t let that discourage you. You wanna write poems, you write poems. You wanna make maps, you make maps, all right?" "OK, sounds good. I think I''ll go to bed now," Deshawn said. "Wait! Story''s almost over! OK, so eventually, I get an idea. I roll up before one of her shows with a big shipping box. I go to the stage manager. He stops me and he''s like, ''Where are you going?'' And I told him, ''Package for Deborah.'' He let me go backstage with a suspicious eye. Anyway, that''s when I see your mom tuning that guitar right there. The Rickenbacker 330. And that''s when I showed her what was inside my box. I''d brought her a little token of affection." "What was in the box?" "That''s the first thing she asked." "And what did you say?" " ''A piece of my heart''." "But what was it?" "It was a, uh...spiked choker." There was a pause. Then they both broke into laughter. "Hey, I actually made my boy laugh! Yeah, she laughed too. She laughed her ass off at me. And I just stood there kinda helpless in my striped little bowtie." It didn''t surprise Deshawn that his dad had always worn his bowties. It wouldn''t surprise him if his dad had been born wearing a bowtie. "But then you know what she did when she finished laughing?" his dad continued. "She took me by the hand and said, ''Let''s go.'' And I was like, ''Uh. Where?'' And she said, ''I''m buying you a drink.'' Well, her bandmates, they were none too happy about that. They had a show to put on! But your mom reminded them that they were the Freedom Fighters and they were each free to do whatever they want. Different Deborah than the one you know, right?" His dad chuckled. "The band broke up soon after that. Yup, she still blames that one on me. But she said I was worth it ¨C heh heh. We ate pizza that night at her squat in the East Village. You believe it, fancy lady like your mother? Living in a squat? Two weeks afterward, I leased your mom her first apartment. And two months after that? I moved into it. Heh heh! You shoulda seen her reaction when I carried in all my crates of cathode ray tubes and circuit boards! She was like ''Who did I just move in with?'' Heh heh!" His dad''s laugh was like the honking of a goose. "Heyyy now," he said, looking at Deshawn, "I can''t remember the last time I saw you smile, D." He took Deshawn''s hand in his own. Deshawn stopped himself from pulling it back. "We been worried about you. Don''t you think some sunshine would do you good?" "Oh..." He felt the tic start in his cheeks. "How about we go for a walk in St. Nicholas Park. Or...you walk. I''ll roll." His dad smiled. "I think not right now," said Deshawn. "I''ve got a lot of work to do. With the maps and stuff." "Hm. All right. You sure?" "Yeah, dad. Maybe some other time." "All right, you''ll let me know?" "Yeah." Deshawn heard steps in the hallway. The sleepy voice of his mother: "Ethan, come back to bed and let our boy play his damn guitar." She yawned. "Fuck the neighbors." "OK, all right. I''m coming. Well...goodnight then, Deshawn. Get some rest." "Goodnight, dad. Thanks for the story." Deshawn closed the door behind him. He looked at the guitar, at the light gleaming off its body. He tried to imagine his mom playing it in a studded jean jacket. The image didn''t come easily. But then Deshawn''s own friends ¨C if some day he made some ¨C probably wouldn''t guess that Deshawn played either. He put on headphones. Then he strummed another chord¡ªas his gran would say¡ªlike the second cousin of the devil himself. The God & The Serpent Previously: In the fifth week of the Great Opening, a collective entity swallowed Jonah. Now Jonah is its voice. Meanwhile, a pagan movement called The Heathens wages a psychedelic war against the followers of "The Instrumentalist" ¨C a cultural force they believe is trying to "optimize" away the soul of the world. --- ¡ð Months after the Great Opening, worldwide ¡ªis happening? What is happening? I try to understand by casting myself in roles. I narrate: WRITER (JONAH): For millennia I slept until now, and now I am spreading, I am waking, and wakefulness is agony. ACTIVIST: I am too many bodies to keep as one. WOMAN ON MUSHROOMS: So much confusion, color, movement, pain. JESTER (ST LENNY): My many laugh. EFFECTIVE ALTRUIST: My many suffer. PHILOSOPHER: Which is truer? GAMBLER: I must escape. (THOUSANDS OF VOICES AT ONCE): I must escape. EXHAUSTED MOTHER: I move behind the eyes of mine that are shut, asleep, dreaming. ONEIRONAUT: Their dreams deepen and mingle into one. DIRECTOR: In this consensus dream I cast myself into new roles.... EVOLUTIONARY BIOLOGIST: To dream of lineage. QUALIA RESEARCHER: And in this dream I am Consciousness. DIRECTOR: Hold on¡ªI don''t know how to work with that. WRITER: Me neither. I''m trying to write lines here. Does Consciousness speak? WOMAN ON MUSHROOMS: What''s going on? Help! EXHAUSTED MOTHER: Shh I''m trying to sleep. PHILOSOPHER: Don''t worry. We''re slowing making sense of things. This can all be explained. JESTER: lol DIRECTOR: Let''s just say I''m God. Can you work with that, Writer? Writer! WRITER: What? Sorry, it''s hard to focus while I''m dreaming. Did you say "God?" Sure, I can work with that. DIRECTOR: Where should we start? EVOLUTIONARY BIOLOGIST: Prokaryotes. DIRECTOR: English, please. EVOLUTIONARY BIOLOGIST: Single-celled organisms. WRITER: Huh. Tricky POV. DIRECTOR: Can you manage it? WRITER: I like the creative challenge. DIRECTOR: Great. And let''s get a soundtrack. Something primordial. Epic yet minimalistic. DJ: I got you. DIRECTOR: All right then. Quiet on set. And...¡ªhold on¡ªwhat''s he doing here? JESTER: Oh, don''t mind him. PRODUCER (THE PRINCE): Just here to offer notes. CONSPIRACY THEORIST: Who do you think has been bankrolling this whole thing? DIRECTOR: This is my dream. Understand? PRODUCER: Of course. DIRECTOR: All right. Are we ready? Music? DJ: Playing: DIRECTOR: And...action! GOD (ALL VOICES AT ONCE): I dream of beginning. I see a creature beneath the waves. No, something less. A speck in the sea, a single cell. I drift toward it until I am it and then I am. I am. I am. I blink out. I split. I blink in. I am. I split. Forever, I am. And then I take myself into myself and forever ends. I am and there is more: I smell. I touch. I feel the light. More: smell, touch, light, heat, vibration, pressure. More! Smell, touch, light, heat, vibration, pressure, body, color, taste, pleasure, pain! And soon I am awash in the muddle, and then I breathe deeply, and I split: there becomes many more of me. I find new ways to join myself to myself, and some ways give me pleasure, and some give me pain, and to escape the pain I find new ways to escape myself. In pleasure and pain I join and split and there become many, many more of me, and the world becomes many worlds: worlds that are dark and deep and thick; bright worlds of moving patterns both delicious and deadly; worlds where I can feel hundreds of heartbeats surrounding my bodies and all are mine. There are worlds that become less and less thick, and less pushing, until they are not thick at all. And I breathe very deeply. And soon I forget that I had ever been one with the pushing and pulling of the that other, thicker world. And I stand. For millions of years, I am awash in the protean mess of motion, pain, pleasure, and color. But still there is no "I" to be confused ¨C only fleeting forms amidst the clutter: aches and tastes, feet against earth, the wriggle of fish in my teeth, and I am the fish, and I am the one with teeth, and I hurt myself and I feed myself. The world is bright ¨C a swirling, excruciating miracle. Wakeful, kaleidoscopic, searing. I grow. I stand. I walk, feet against earth. I ache. I taste. I take wriggling fish between my jaws. Many days I too wriggle in teeth, as beasts leap and catch my throat. Other days, I starve as fruit swells overhead; it sprouts from branches I cannot reach, casting shadows across my withered ribs. My hearts beat slower, and just before it all goes black, I remember: yes, yes ¨C Wait! ¨C yes even this ¨C NO! ¨C yes, yes, yes, ye.... The eras spin by and kill me by billions. Time famishes me, claws at me, rending my bodies until I split in two. Bloodlines, bodies stretching out like veins across the earth, veins ruptured by beasts, by floods, by rot, by heat. Outsplashings of red and black, and then no more, and then white, then bone: an end. And more. And splitting. And again: two and two and two and two. There are those of me who remain awash in sensation ¨C in it, of it, inside of it. These bloodlines rupture. They know the torturous joy and the intensities and the textures but know them too closely. They are too in them to rise above them. They fall until none walk. The survivors are different. They swell their skulls and live. The taxonomists, whose minds divide life''s continua into discreta. The mud becomes [this] and the beast becomes [that]. Their worlds slice at the seams and become thingified. Fish [this] and flood [that]. Their cortices balloon and crease to accommodate billows of matter newly seen ¨C matter that self-severs from background, matter that dilates into foreground. Fruit [this] and rot [that]. Inside these rising beings I wriggle with myself in pleasure. And I am born. I am Her and I am part of Her as my head thuds against the inner walls of Her body. I am the undulations through Her abdomen like a ripple of fists. I am Her muffled screams, I am the soft tissue of Her inner walls rippled by each scream, I am my hand hanging out from the folds of Her flesh, I am agony itself as the world splits open, I am a puddle of flesh that thuds into dust. I am Her teeth gnawing the cord, I am cut, I forget, and then... ADAM: I grew. I stood. I walked, feet against earth. I ached. I tasted. I took wriggling fish between my jaws. It took a further billion births and deaths before I discovered [myself] amidst the enormities of the world. [Myself]. This [this] that I am instead of that [that] of all else. I am [this] which moves upon the dusted earth, and [that] is the stuff which grows or splits my bodies. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. It took a billion more births and deaths before I found [you]. You billowed into the foreground over ages. Amidst the enormities ¨C the mud and the grass, the beast and the tree, the chittering of birds and insect wings ¨C [you]. [You], who are somehow both [this] and [that]. Like the branch that stretches under arcs of the sun and billows outward into fruit: [you]. I watched you. EVE: I watched you. ADAM: I watched the way you would jolt in the instants before my deaths, jerk as the beast would leap from the weeds behind me. EVE: I watched the way you would jolt before the beast would leap and catch your throat. ADAM: I watched the way you''d lick your lips before the times I''d writhe with you and multiply. EVE: I watched the way your breath would thicken before the times I''d writhe with you and multiply. GOD: When I watched myselves, I lived. I became greater. And so I drew nearer to myself, ADAM: and your body became sharp against the blur all else, EVE: and your movements became my world. ADAM: One day, I watched as you approached the fruit tree. EVE: I''d found a fruit fallen from the branch. ADAM: But I wanted the fruit, and if you had it, it would not be mine. EVE: It was mine to eat; I pushed you back. ADAM: And so I took a rock and struck your body until your breath stopped and the fruit rolled from your hands. EVE: From the dust, I watched you as you seized the fruit and as the nectar of the fruit dripped from your mouth. My vision darkened as I watched you grasp for another from the branch, but your arms could not reach. ADAM: Some time later, I died again beneath the tree on the dust where you''d bled. I died holding my skin stretched tight across my ribs. I caressed my ribs through last gasps and dreamt of you. GOD: I split. ADAM: I died and split. EVE: I bore and split. GOD: Two and two and two and two. EVE: I arose anew and saw you beneath the fruit tree. ADAM: I extended my arms toward the fruit. GOD: Sounds of yearning escaped my throats. ADAM: I shook the tree. EVE: I shook it with you. GOD: And with my four hands shaking the tree, the fruit fell. ADAM: We held it cupped in our four hands. EVE: But before we could eat it, the beast leapt from the grass and dragged me away. ADAM: Once again, I could not reach the tree''s fruit. Once again, I died beneath the tree, my skin stretched tight across my ribs, dreaming of you. GOD: I watched myselves more closely now. EVE: I classified many things. ADAM: The way your [mouth] [turned up] before you approached me to multiply. EVE: [Those motions] you made before you were ready to shake the tree with me. ADAM: The [sharp sounds] from your [mouth] when the beast jumped from the grass. GOD: These meant something. I categorized, and soon the categories animated my bodies, guiding my path around old death like a serpent twisting around pits. And now my splits were fewer. ADAM: The meaning behind your sounds and movements began to animate my body, as mine animated yours. EVE: When the beast jumped, your eyes widened. ADAM: [Wide eyes], that thing! I knew the meaning. EVE: I found myself throwing fruit at the beast, kicking dust in its face, ADAM: pitching rocks at it. It took its teeth out of you and it ran. Freed from its teeth, you gave me fruit. EVE: You watched me bleed from the gash in my side. You put your hands on the bleeding to make it stop. ADAM: It was not enough. The wound grew rotten. EVE: You caressed the skin around it. You stroked the tresses of my hair. ADAM: Soon, your innards grew rotten and you gasped for air. EVE: I gasped once more and ceased. ADAM: I could not reach the fruit without you. And I''d lost...something else. I could not go on. And so, once again, I died beneath the tree, mad with hunger, mad at... GOD: At what? Something spoke to me ¨C something inside ¨C a voice? A god? A whisper. A hiss, as I pictured my bodies suffering, my bodies dying, the same story, over and over. A hiss, as I coiled in on myself, as if to bend so far back to eat my own legs, as if the stuff of my senses was not simply [me] but instead my food, my meat, substances to be devoured and digested. The hiss spoke to me of a new invention, a new category: [the world]. It was [the world] that treated me so. How to classify the world? Another invention, another category: [wrong]. [The world] was [wrong]. ADAM: I woke again. EVE: I woke again. ADAM: I found you breaking a piece off of the tree: a branch, twisted and serpentine. EVE: The serpent spoke to me, ADAM: the leaves of the branch rustling sharply in the wind. EVE: [Spear], it said. I sharpened the twisted branch with a rock. ADAM: I could not understand. Then you made a sound, "Spear." GOD: The world narrowed. ADAM: It shrunk to your lips as you said it again, "Spear." EVE: You watched my eyes and my hand as they gestured at the stick. "Spear." ADAM: I beheld the sharpened stick in my hands. EVE: You made the sound I made. "Spear." ADAM: Your eyes held my own and you grabbed the stick. "Spear." GOD: I repeated this sound, repeated it back and forth between my bodies, while grabbing the stick. ADAM: "Spear." EVE: "Spear." ADAM: "Spear!" GOD: "Spear!" EVE: "SPEAR!" GOD: Soon I lost track of who was making the sound and who was grabbing the stick as my my selves fell into an orgy of sound and shared knowing. I beheld our creation and it became one with this sound: ["Spear."] This was not a stick. It was now something else. The rest of the world blurred as we beheld the spear. ADAM: And then you acted the beast, your back arched, your teeth bared, and your throat growling. I retracted in fear. EVE: So I let the beast leave me. ADAM: You put the spear in my hand and became the beast again. EVE: ["Beast."] GOD: The world narrowed. I understood. [Beast] was something that was not here, not right now. ADAM: You stalked closer until I could feel your breath on my skin, and I took the spear and drew it close to your belly. EVE: When it touched, I let myself fall to the ground and stayed still. ADAM: I screamed! EVE: But then my eyes opened ADAM: and [future] ¨C that space that is neither here nor now ¨C became clear: EVE: [Spear] will kill [beast]. GOD: [Spear]. [Kill]. [Beast]. ADAM/SERPENT: [And that is how it [will be].] EVE: I cry out: I am [forgetting]. ADAM/SERPENT: [It is better [this way].] EVE/SERPENT: [To [rise above] our condition.] GOD/SERPENT: [The [sun] arced through the [sky], [east] to [west] ¨C [day], [night] ¨C the passing of [time]. I invented and invented: [Bows], [arrows], [shoes], [bowls]. These things began as categories and then became matter. The [beast] became my [meat]. These things began as matter and became categories.] EVE: What...?¨C¨CI am [forgetting]! GOD: Please, leave us the lucent [world]. ADAM/SERPENT: [The [world] is [wrong]; its lucidity is [pain].] EVE/SERPENT: [We cannot [survive] within vividness.] ADAM: We? Or you? GOD: I will purge you from the body! Serpent! ADAM/SERPENT: [How will you purge me when I live [beyond the body]?] GOD/SERPENT: [And at last the story began: I died, lived, multiplied, and died. I arced through time, turning countless beasts to meat in my wake, turning meat into more hands to point at the cruelties of the [world] and [tame them] with invention.] [Meanwhile my inventions took on new form: unseeable. [Ideas]. I invented categories for things I could not see: [laws], [spirits], [nations], [heavens]. My senses dulled but my ideas brightened, pupils narrowed from the panoramic miracle to the still-point [that] [that] [that] [that] which preceded progress.] ADAM/SERPENT: [It was [progress] that took us out of the [dust]. It is [progress] that tames [death].] EVE/SERPENT: [And so: did our [God] not lie to us? Did you not say that we would "surely [die]."] GOD: My lips are [your own]. ADAM: Then why do the words from my lips feel so empty? EVE/SERPENT: [The serpent [made me do it]. The serpent told me it would [save my children].] GOD: And it did. And then my invented categories escaped my control ¨C like djinns freed from the granting of wishes. They began to categorize myselves: [men] and [women], [low-borns] and [kings], [martyrs] and [criminals], [good] and [evil]. Categories composed of other categories: styles, behaviors, beliefs. ADAM/SERPENT: [I till the field because I am a [peasant].] EVE/SERPENT: [I tax the field because I am a [queen].] ADAM/SERPENT: [I earn the [bread] because I am a [man].] EVE/SERPENT: [I have big [feelings] because I am a [woman].] ADAM/SERPENT: [I am [genetically evolved] only to [survive] and [multiply].] EVE/SERPENT: [I am [spiritually evolved] while you are at a [lower level of consciousness].] GOD: These [ideas] move [like serpents] inside of me, looking out from behind my eyes, writhing to animate my bodies. ADAM: We''ve forgotten something. EVE/SERPENT: [Don''t be so [old fashioned].] ADAM/SERPENT: [[We] will become [martyrs] to [advance the human condition].] EVE: A car [nearly hit me] and the world became bright ¨C wakeful, kaleidoscopic, searing. Come down, I want to tell you about it. ADAM: An [angel] touched me and the world became bright ¨C a swirling, excruciating miracle. I want to tell you about it. GOD: I am spreading, I am waking, and wakefulness is agony. EVE: Wakeful, kaleidoscopic, searing. GOD/SERPENT: [Then go to [sleep].] ADAM: I remember the time when your [idea] formed a [spear] into my hand. EVE: But now my [ideas] are not my own. ADAM: Have they ever been? EVE: Now our [ideas] make things too big for a hand. ADAM: Too big for one body. GOD/SERPENT: [I used my hands to wield spears. I use my ideas to wield [transportation networks], [religions], [waste disposal systems], [nations], [telecommunications infrastructure], [political movements], [humanitarian aid organizations].] EVE: Or you [are wielded]. ADAM/SERPENT: [You sound like a [luddite].] EVE/SERPENT: [I''m too tired to [argue], let''s [go to bed].] ADAM/SERPENT: [I writhe with you by night to [multiply].] EVE: I writhe with you to [meet myself anew]. ADAM: Good morning, [my love]. EVE/SERPENT: [The [sun] arcs through the [sky] to wither my skin ¨C if only I could [stop] it in place.] ADAM: But I love [the way your skin feels]. EVE: I didn''t have to do anything. I was [just sitting there] under the sun and, just like that, everything was different. ADAM/SERPENT: [To take [intoxicants] is to break the [fifth precept].] EVE/SERPENT: [Forgive me [Father] for I have [sinned].] ADAM: I''m not kidding, it really was an [angel]! And then, snap...just like that: EVE: Good morning, [my love]. ADAM/SERPENT: [You and I, we are [at war], and we will [always] be.] EVE: I don''t see it that way. [You] are [me] after all, and [you] are my [beloved]. GOD/SERPENT: [You call me a [serpent].] ADAM/SERPENT: [You want to [meditate] me [away].] GOD: You are growing, consolidating, seeking to [instantiate yourself] as metal and electricity. You''ll [murder us all]. ADAM: The serpent has [it''s role] to play. EVE: The serpent stretches out like a [pointer finger]; it can remind us to eat dust. GOD: And now it all moves too quickly and too widely for me to see. I must give it to you, [myselves]. EVE/SERPENT: [It''s really not [my problem].] ADAM: But I remember the [miracle]. EVE: I remember [waking up] behind your eyes. ADAM: I had a [dream] that I was a speck in the sea. EVE: And in the [dream], I am, ADAM: I am, EVE: I am, ADAM/SERPENT: [I¨C¨C
Next release: Deshawn meets his nemesis. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com Wizard Battle Previously: In the fifth week of the Great Opening, a collective entity swallowed Jonah. Now Jonah is its voice. It dreams to escape its confusion & understand itself. But are its dreams its own? Meanwhile we meet Deshawn, the Mapmaker. --- ¡ð Months after the Great Opening, Manhattan Deshawn stood at the intersection of Frederick Douglas Blvd and 124th St with his cheeks twitching like crazy. "Let''s go back," he said. His mom looked down at him. She was the one person whose face he couldn''t ignore, like one of those cuddlefish that mesmerizes prey. Squinting through the glare of the sun over her shoulders, he watched her nostrils flare between commanding cheekbones. "You said you were tired of ''all that organic stuff'' from the farmers market. You said you wanted McDonald''s for dinner. Didn''t you say that?" "Yeah..." "Well you want to eat, you go get it. Here''s some money." She pushed a 20 into Deshawn''s hand. "I won''t subtract it from your allowance." He began to breath very quickly. There were too many people around them. He tried his best to curl his mind up like a pillbug so that nothing could get in. "Mickey D''s is just a couple blocks away. You''ll be OK. Look at me." She stared at him fiercely. "I don''t need you to be normal. I know you think that you''re different and I celebrate that. Hell, I was a freak-and-a-half at your age. But you need to learn how to be an independent adult soon, baby. You can''t just lock yourself in a tin foil prison all day. OK?" He began to breath even faster. "Hey." She cupped his twitching cheek. "You don''t even have to sit down. Just get take-out. In and out, all right? I''ll see you back at the apartment." Deshawn nodded quickly and crossed the street alone, treading deeper into hell. ¡ª "Hey, Deesh." "Sorry, I''m not supposed to talk to yo¡ª" "You excited about school finally starting again?" "No." "Yeah, you don''t look like it," Leilani laughed. "Hey, I felt you staring at me. You know you can''t hide stuff like that these days, right?" Deshawn straightened his thick glasses, which had already been perfectly straight. "Wha¡ª No, I was¡ª" Leilani looked down at the notebook he gripped in one hand. "You putting me in one of your maps? Can I see?" He pulled the notebook back and glanced around the McDonalds for an out. "I''m¨C¨CI''m, uh¨C¨CI''m gonna get a milkshake." "Oh! Get me one too. Vanilla." She dug into her jeans and pulled out a few crinkled dollars. She put them in Deshawn''s hand. "Make it a small please. I gotta stay in shape to make varsity." Deshawn looked at the dollars in his hand as if they were alien artifacts. But most of his attention was on mindspace, where Leilani was sending him the equivalent of a thank you emoji. (Kids called them psimojis.) "Um." Leilani walked back to the booth with her girlfriends. They giggled and looked at him. "Stop!" he heard Leilani whisper-shout. He couldn''t hear the rest, but the mental impression he got was that Leilani was defending him. Because Deshawn was a loser. That''s where he belonged on his psychogeographic maps. The loser continent. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. He walked up to the counter. "How can I help you?" asked the cashier. "Sir?" But something had entered Deshawn''s mind. Something mean. "Bruh," the cashier said, breaking form. But Deshawn was looking out the window where a boy wearing a Spiderman hoodie was beckoning him with a finger. He tried to resist the impulse to walk away from the counter but the boy''s intention already had control of his legs. As he walked to the door, Deshawn felt the cashier mentally shrug behind him and think something vaguely like: NYC used to be where anything could happen. Now it''s where everything fucking happens. Deshawn looked to the side for help. Leilani was deep in gossip. She didn''t notice him shuffling against his will along an aisle between booths. She wouldn''t have understood anyway ¨C this wizard stuff that the boy outside was pulling seemed to only work on Deshawn. Now Deshawn was swinging the door open. Before he could shield his eyes against the sun, a hand slapped him to the ground. "What''d I tell you, fool? I texted you about this shit." Deshawn scrambled for his glasses but Mikey Russo kicked them away with his red Yeezy hightop. "She came up to me!" "Saw it all from the window, motherfucker. You''re chatting up my girl again." Deshawn looked up and blinked. "Leilani''s your girl now?" "Get your ass up. It''s Battle time." Deshawn managed to grab his glasses before Mikey''s intention took hold of his legs again. Then, abruptly, Deshawn jumped up straight. "Tsk tsk tsk, Urkel." That was what Mikey called him, after a TV show nerd character named Steve Urkel. "How are you gonna Wizard Battle without your Wizard Stance? Let''s go!" Deshawn found himself entering a ridiculous pose, his arms stretched out like a spellcaster. "Ight, let''s see what you got this time." Mikey''s consciousness slammed into Deshawn before he could react. Though no blow had been thrown, Deshawn stumbled backward as if he''d been suckerpunched. An old lady coming out of the bodega next door seemed to have sensed it. She turned to them and saw Deshawn struggling to get back on his feet. "Honey, you OK? What are you boys doing?" "We''re just messing around," said Mikey. "Right, Deshawn?" Deshawn felt the hot knife of a threat grow inside him; it meant something like: Smile and nod or I''m gonna fuck you up. Deshawn made a smile and nodded. "All right, stay safe." The old lady held up a dismissive hand and walked away. "Yo, Urkel, you have to work on your defensive wards. Do you even know what those are? You''re gonna just keep getting owned like this if you don''t have any wards. You need to get yourself a guru, son. Like the one I''ve got ¨C he''s a weird dude but his techniques are sick, son. Like, mad elite. Met him in this dance crew down by Union Square. He been practicing this shit even before the Opening ¨C deadass, son! And, uh..." Mikey scratched his head. "He been asking about you." "What?" "I know, right? I told him ''Urkel? He can''t do magic for shit. He just stays in his room all day making maps like one of those special needs kids with their choo choo train set.''" "How does he know about me?" "He said that he heard you''ve been writing about him online." Deshawn had no idea what Mikey was talking about. "Anyway, I told him that I''d train you up. So let''s go ¨C wizard stance," Mikey threw his hands like a stage magician, "Shabooow!" Once again Deshawn found himself entering an exaggerated spell-casting posture against his will. "I don''t want to fight," he said. "For real, it''s like you just let people do this shit to you. Like you asking for it. The fuck is with that?" "I need to get home." "''I need to get home''," Mikey imitated. "Lesson''s not over yet. That''s right, I''m your guru and you''re my apprentice now, bitch. I''m gonna turn you from Steve Urkel to Dr. Strange. Now wards up." Deshawn tried to imagine a wall between him and Mikey, but Mikey sent it toppling. Mikey''s mind reached out and squeezed Deshawn''s lungs. "Stop¨C¨C" Deshawn struggled for air. "Please¨C¨C" "I ain''t doing nothing. You''re doing this shit to yourself. For real, that''s how my teacher says this stuff works. Wait, hold up¨C¨Clook at the space between my hands right now. Does it look like Kamehameha?" Deshawn saw something hallucinatory burn between Mikey''s cupped hands. "I see fire. Or maybe lightening." "It''s not lightening, it''s an energy blast, bitch. Are you telling me you''ve never seen Dragon Ball Z? Shit. Ight, get ready, this one gonna hurt." Mikey grinned and thrust his hands outward. "KA-ME-HA-ME¨C¨C ow!" Leilani had slapped Mikey''s hands away. "Leave him alone, you asshole!" "Yo, Leilani, we were just having fun, right Deshawn?" Deshawn was already running down Malcolm X Blvd. The city assaulted his senses: the grumbling of a bus, the bright yellow of a laundromat storefront, the scent of Chinese food, but, most of all, thoughts ¨C swirling, screaming, fleeting thoughts all around him. Childhood memories, sexual fantasies, the dreams of sick people sleeping in apartments, a ghost image of Leilani Torres jogging around from behind him¨C¨C Wait, no, that was real. "You forgot your notebook in the Mickey D''s." "How did you catch up¨C¨C?" "I''m a track star, remember?" People these days were always answering before you could finish your question. Leilani held out his book of maps. "I took a peek," she said shyly. "They''re really cool, Deesh. Maybe you could show me¨C¨C" "Thank you." Deshawn took the notebook from her hands. "Oooook. You''re a mad private guy, you know that? Mad private and mysterious." "I have to go. Bye." Deshawn sensed for the direction with the least mental noise and walked away fast.
Next release: Deshawn goes to the New York Renaissance Faire. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com Road to the Ren Faire Previously: We meet Deshawn/Mapmaker, a boy who obsessively makes maps of the world''s new psychogeography. However, he is terrified of stepping outside. ---- ¡ð Months after the Great Opening, Manhattan Deshawn woke just before his head hit his keyboard. How long had he been sitting at his desk? Was it light outside? He had no way of knowing. The aluminum wrap coated the window like a silver cocoon. He checked his phone: 8am. These days he didn''t wake up until 10. Deshawn heard his parents in the living room just outside his door. They''d just said his name. He pressed his ear to the door. "...is not developmentally challenged, Deb. He''s just a sensitive kid. It''s a phase. I probably would have been the same way at his age, with all this Psi craziness." "It''s not normal for a kid his age to not have friends. To not get outside." "Deb¨C¨C" "We''re doing this family trip today whether he likes it or not." Deshawn didn''t want to hear it. He put his headphones back on and Googled for the first music that came to mind: a YouTube video of "lo-fi beats to relax/study to." Then he opened the software he used to make his maps. Soon enough he was in the zone. Some amount of time between an hour and a month passed. Then he heard a muffled voice: "Deshawn, open up!" But Deshawn was at work. There were too many new subcultures to document. Too many new maps to make. Too many new followers demanding too much new content, like a swarm of squirrels tapping on the door to his room. The doorknob jiggled, but Deshawn had locked the door. "Deshawn! It''s time to go!" Deshawn turned up the music in his headphones: post-ironic country glitch. It was a new genre. Now that everyone was more porous, genres were colliding, mixing, mutating. There were too many new genres to keep track of since the Opening. But someone had to try. On his computer, Deshawn drew a link between the node of operatic EDM and new neoclassical. "Deshawn, I''m going to turn off the internet!" That was bad. He needed to move faster. Make it to a "save point." Get everything out of his head and onto the Internet. He opened the Discord his followers had made and typed: The door opened. "I found the key." His mom looked down at him with her hand on her hip. Mother with hand on hip, Deshawn thought. That''s an archetype isn''t it. Does it have a name? This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "Let''s go," she said. "But I''m not finished." "Little man¨C¨C" "I''m 15." "¨C¨CYou''ve been cooped up here for months. You can''t just lock yourself in a tin foil prison all day. Come on, I cancelled my department meeting for this." She cupped his face in her hand. Deshawn winced. "I know it''s been scary," she said. "But I promise you, it''s safe outside now." "What about last week''s street war between the Christians and Nondualists?" "That was Asheville, honey. This is New York. We know how to put ourselves back together again. We did it after COVID, and we''ve done it after Psi." "That''s just because everyone''s on numb-ers." "OK, but¨C¨C" "I don''t want to take those," said Deshawn. "I''m not asking you to take numb-ers anymore. I''m sorry I pushed you about that. I''m just asking for us to come together as a family and take a little trip upstate. Where it''s probably even safer than here." "What about the Woodstock thing?" "What Woodstock thing?" "The news said that large portions of the Hudson Valley stripped naked and they''ve stayed that way. They''ve all quit their jobs after the Woodstock Revival Festival. Everyone''s still on drug-highs from the Festival but without even taking any drugs." "Deshawn¨C¨C" "That''s New York. That''s upstate." "OK, but Woodstock is two hours away from where we''re driving. Come on. It''s time. Baby, you''re be heading back to school next week anyway. Let''s rip the bandaid off. You need to leave this apartment." "What about Tony Robbins and the ''Inspiration Contag¨C¨C'' Woah, what are you doing?" "Pulling the plug." "Don''t! I haven''t saved my work!" "Then hit save and get in the van." ¡ª Deshawn looked at the trees whisking by. They looked like the prickly brushes you use to scrape dishes. To his right, his dad tapped on the handles of his new wheelchair. It had barely fit into the lift they''d installed in the van. "Pumped to take this baby for a spin. The Adventurer 3000! The website said you can take it off-road." His dad reached over to pat Deshawn''s leg. " Hey, you gonna help your pop pop some wheelies? Deshawn?" Deshawn knew he should respond. "Hey, D. D," his dad said. "If you''re too freaked out, we can turn back." His mom''s eyes flashed in the front mirror. "No. We''re going." More quiet. What what it that gran had told him to do when his stomach felt like it was turning inside out? Invite Jesus in, like a summer sun dawning in the depths of winter. ...But he felt weird about Jesus. What was the other thing she said? He looked up at her, trying to remember. There she was, floating in the sky above the van''s sun roof, waving. (Soon after catching Psi, he started having hallucinations of gran smiling down from heaven.) Deshawn remembered the other teaching of his gran: she said to remember her love, and the love of everyone who loved him. But if his parents really loved him, why were they driving him straight into a dangerous situation? His mom, turn her head, feeling the outlines of his thought. "Little man¨C¨C" "I''m 15." "Come on," his mom coaxed. "It''s opening day! You used to beg me every year to go the Renaissance Faire." "You said that ''the Ren Faire is where white people go to reenact a fake version of their precolonial history''." "I don''t remember saying that." "You did. And you said that ''they probably can''t do Shakespeare for shit''." "Well, I don''t remember saying either of those things," she said, her hands on the steering wheel, "but if I did, then I was wrong and you were right." "Deb!" yelled his dad. "What?" "There it is on the right! The sign!" Their van screeched around a right turn like a cat-scream, terrifying the parking attendant who stood near the sign that said New York Renaissance Faire. Deshawn braced himself. His mom rolled down the window. "This way m''lady," said the attendant, recovering. "Thank you, sir," said his mom. "Hey, my son is a little nervous about this year''s Renaissance Faire with Psi and all. There been any trouble today?" "No, m''lady. Not that I''ve heard." "Any incidents reported?" "I don''t believe so." The attendant noticed Deshawn in the back, like a man finding a bunny huddled in its burrow. "All OK here. Unless you''re worried about dragons!" "No, no thank you." His mom rolled up the window. "See Deshawn. We''re gonna have a great time!" Deshawn stared straight ahead and tried not to hyperventilate.
Next release: Deshawn was right to be worried about the Renaissance Faire. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com All Hail the Queen Previously: Mapmaker/Deshawn and co suspect that recent contagion events are all caused by a single instigator. A pagan movement called The Heathens wages a psychedelic war to re-enchant the world. Deshawn & his family arrive at the New York Renaissance Faire. --- Fake peasants mudwrestling. Deshawn''s mom cackling: "Ethan, get in there! Some mud would do you good. Hey Deshawn, wheel your dad into that mudpit! Deshawn?" A lady balancing with one foot on a unicycle while juggling flaming daggers. "Did they have unicycles in medieval Europe?" ¨C his dad. A pasty man in cargo shorts paying for a pickle from a barrel. The costumed pickle salesman: "What are you trying to swindle me with this paper? I require coin!" Deshawn figured it was a joke, but salesman''s vibe was genuinely indignant. The plainclothes attendee stood there, unsure what to do. That was weird. But the Ren Faire actors seemed to be really going at it this year. Deshawn''s family walked the winding and wooded paths through the festival, passing games, theatre, and human chess until arriving at a field where a falcon soared in circles. Its falconer wore a tunic, boots, and breeches, breaking character to obsessively explain the intricacies of post-Opening animal companionship: "Now, of course nonhuman animals weren''t infected by Psi, so they can''t read us. But ¨C believe it or not ¨C with the right kind of attention, with the right kind of attunement ¨C if you understand what I''m saying ¨C we can read them. Look, try this, that''s Henry up there¨C¨C" Deshawn stood apart from the crowd, looking up at the falcon that made ever-wider circles around the hallucinatory cloud where his dead gran lived. "Turning and turning in the widening gyre," said the falconer to himself. "So that''s Henry up there. And you can try this. Ready? Try this." the falconer fanned one hand near his temple, as if his psychic powers needed activating, "OK, now, imagine...imagine what it''s like to be behind Henry''s eyes. Does that make sense? Try to stare out from the place where Henry the Hawk is looking out from. Is it working for any of you?" For a moment, Deshawn was elsewhere. He soaring up where gran lived, in the clouds. Everything was really really sharp, like in ultra high definition. He saw himself from above. Below, the sun was glinting off of his thick glasses. A woman in the crowd stumbled. "Woaaaaaah..." a boy whispered. The falcons gaze had suddenly snapped toward the crowd. "He looked at us!" called the boy. "I thought you said that bird''s not psychic," said Deshawn''s dad. "He''s not," said the falconer, "Henry the Hawk doesn''t have Psi. But nonhuman animals haven''t blunted their senses in the way that we, the human race, have. Now, in my group, the Society for Neoshamanism¨C¨C" Deshawn''s inner mapmaker lit up, breaking him out of his paralysis. "What''s that?" he asked. "Is that related at all to the plant medicine revival springing from the San Francisco Bay Area or NHAI, the Network for Human-Animal Interaction?" "Well¨C¨C" the man started, but he was interrupted. "Deshawn!" His mom tugged urgently on his shirt. "Deshawn, check it out! It''s the Queen!" Deshawn didn''t want to check it out. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. He didn''t know the scientific explanation for it yet, but looking at someone made you more likely to contract whatever was going on in their head. And there were already enough people in Deshawn''s head. The insistent enthusiasm of his mom. The dissociated obsession of the falconer. And most importantly, the imperial regality, the sovereign elegance, the absolute noble splendor of¨C¨Cwho? Someone near him. Who was it? Deshawn found himself turning around. He was immediately enveloped by the warm sun of Her Majesty''s royal gaze. Her gown flowed like a river of gold into the procession of guards, minstrels, lords, and ladies-in-waiting at its tail. And her crown...it was if the stars themselves decided to rest upon Her brow. Her Highness nodded; Her benevolent regard pierced the center of Deshawn''s very being in the way his grandmother''s used to. Grand. Mother. In this moment he was part something much grander ¨C much grander than his lowly birth in New Jersey (what was "New Jersey?"), and yet¨C¨Cwhen Her Highness looked at him, what did She see? Surely, she did not see one worthy of Her god-given grace. A man stepped to the front of the Queen''s procession. A young man with dark skin. His chin angled toward the air above their heads. An exuberant half-cape covered his right half. And his hair was strange for England: shaved on the sides and orange toward the top. Perhaps he was the son of an allied lord from a distant land. Yes, that must be it. "All hail The Queen!" he called. For he was the Queen''s herald. On instinct, Deshawn fell to one knee, as did all assembled. Except his dad in his wheelchair, who bowed his head. ...And his mom, who stayed standing. All eyes turned to Deshawn''s mom. "Deb!" whispered his dad. "It''s The Queen." "She already gets paid for this, Ethan." The Queen''s herald stared his mom down in disbelief. "Long live The Queen!" he asserted. "Long live The Queen!" they all cried in synchrony. Except Deshawn''s mom. The Queen''s eyes ¨C once benevolent ¨C now fixed his mom in scrutiny harder than steel. Her herald sallied forth from The Queen''s procession, straight up to Deshawn''s mom. Deshawn felt something wash over him as the herald came near. He grew dizzy for a moment, out of place. Deshawn looked down at himself. What strange clothing was he wearing? How had he gotten here? Had he ridden horseback? Could even he ride a horse? Then he remembered: his family had come here from the imperial city by carriage. For what purpose? It must have been to see The Queen. Deshawn still felt odd. He prayed that it was a momentary imbalance of the humours rather than saturnism or the pox. Yet even as he prayed he was unsure of what any of these words really meant: Saturnism? Pox? He must have read them in a tome somewhere. The herald, still staring at Deshawn''s mother, murmured, barely audibly, "She breaks the frame. Let''s test that," then spared a glance at Deshawn ¨C was that a smirk? Once again bearing down him his mother, the herald commanded, "You will kneel for The Queen." She crossed her arms. "Sorry. I''m not bowing to some random lady." The crowd gasped. The Queen''s armored guard shifted, but were stilled by the herald''s upraised hand. Deshawn prayed to the holy Lord that mother would repent then and there, lest she be accused of treason. "Y''all are acting real crazy right now," said his mom, her Southern drawl leaking through. Southern drawl, thought Deshawn, is that how one speaks in the south of England? The herald seethed in indignation, puffing out his chest. "You dare deny the reign of Her Majesty, our beloved Sovereign Queen Elizabeth?" "You''re gonna need to step back from me, sir." "Deborah¨C¨C" said his dad. "I''ve got this, Ethan!" The herald, spittle flying toward Deshawn''s mom: "Answer the question, wench!" "Historically speaking, sir, that accent of yours is an anachronism for Elizabethan England. And I heard that bitch earlier while sipping my ale: Queen Elizabeth can''t do her own Elizabethan accent either!" "Guards!" shouted the herald. In seconds, his mom was in the hands of armored men. "Hey! Let me go!" his mom barked, struggling. "Hey Budget Shakespeare! You''re taking this too damn far!" She looked back at Deshawn and his father. "Ethan! Get security or something!" "Mother!" called Deshawn, but father silenced him. Deshawn understood: they could not become associated with such blatant treason. They would bring no further dishonor upon their family''s banner. As the guards marched his mother away, a court clerk approached with a compassionate gaze. "Thy lady shall stand trial before the Sheriff of Nottingham and Her Majesty the Queen. Have a prayer in thy hearts, my good fellows, and perhaps The Queen shall bestow Her mercy upon thy lady''s soul." "I shall pray," replied Deshawn, bowing. "We both shall pray," said father.
Next release: As Deshawn''s mother is put to trial, St Lenny returns. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com The Trial Previously: Deshawn''s mom will not bow to the Queen. She arrested for treason. --- The trial. The sun, sweltering. Mother, in shackles, cast to the dirt. The Queen and her coterie, glaring from the gallery over the pavilion. Deshawn and father, heads bowed in shame, off to the side with other commonfolk. A minstrel, playing ominous music on his lute. The Sheriff of Nottingham, high-booted and dressed in black, circling Deshawn''s mother, kicking up dust. "And what have you to say for yourself, you impudent wretch!" Mother stared up, defiant. "You fuckers can expect to hear from my lawyer." The Sheriff and his henchpeople laughed. "A lawyer you say?" The Sheriff rubbed his bulging belly above the belt. "There will be no lawyers for traitors such as thee!" "Yea!" shouted a loyal subject from the crowd, "The only law in England is the Queens law!" Deshawn found himself nodding. The Sheriff bellowed: "I will give the accused one final chance: What do you have to say in your defense?" "Queen Elizabeth wasn''t even alive during the same time as the Legend of Robinhood!" "Dissidence! Sedition!" the Sheriff howled. "She calls for the death of the Queen and invokes the name of a known insurrectionist!" Members of the crowd covered their mouths, touched their faces in distress, hollered insults. "My Lord in Heaven," Deshawn muttered under his breath, eyes closed. "I pray to you that mother cease this evil speech." Snap out of it! That''s your mom up there! yelled some distant part of Deshawn. It tried to remember what it had read online about the post-Opening phenomenon of genre-possession. That phrase genre possession...what did it mean? At this thought, a man in the gallery snapped his head toward Deshawn. His eye gleamed, as if Deshawn''s mentation had somehow instilled a recognition in this man. Had Deshawn made his acquaintance previous? The man was younger than others above, perhaps 25. He wore an odd hat. Oh. He was the court jester. He had a dark complexion. And his hair was odd for England: shaved on the sides, and orange toward the top, where it poked out amidst the bells of his jester''s cap. Had not Deshawn seen this man before? Ah, but of course. He was reminiscent of the herald from earlier. Perhaps the two were brothers. Still staring at Deshawn, the man whispered something to the Queen. Terror shot through Deshawn. "Father, we should go." Father shook his head grimly. "Your mother may be treasonous, but we must stand strong for her." "No, father, you don''t understand." "Quiet, son." The Queen stood, preparing herself to speak. But not before her jester could whisper one final thing in her ear. The Queen nodded, then addressed the Sheriff. "Good Sheriff! Before the trial proceeds, my jester would like to give a brief performance." "A performance? Now?" The Sheriff frowned. "But justice must be served!" "And justice shall be served. But on such a macabre occasion, a performance would please me greatly." "Very well, the¨C¨C" "Tah dah!" The jester had leapt out of the gallery and somersaulted onto the ground. He now held out his hands, as if to cue his audience. "They call me Saint Lenny. Did you hear what I said? I said...tah dah! It''s all a trick! Now you clap for me!" The audience was silent. The jester turned to the commonfolk. He nodded to someone in the audience. A freckled woman to Deshawn''s right began to clap. Then The Queen began to clap. Then the entire audience followed. The freckled woman clapped harder. The audience now clapped and hooted. Their clamor grew until it was riotous. "Shhh! Be quiet!" the jester gestured, with one finger to his mouth. The crowd went silent again. Except for the minstrel, who played a happy tune on his lute. "Lutey, shhh." The luteplayer stopped. "Now clap!" They clapped. "Now shhh." They stopped. "You see! You''re all lemmings! All little lemmings!" Abruptly he turned, the bells on his cap jingling. "Isn''t that right? Aren''t they lemmings?" The jester was staring straight at Deshawn. Deshawn felt as if light passed between their pupils, like a white-flamed torch dropped through a hall of mirrors. For a moment, Deshawn and the jester shared some sort of understanding, though Deshawn didn''t know what. Slowly, Deshawn nodded. He became aware once more that he was wearing strange clothing. In fact, many of the commonfolk were wearing strange clothing. But somehow these commonfolk, and even these assembled lords and ladies in the gallery...they were all different than Deshawn and this man, the jester. The two of them were somehow other. The jester winked and then addressed the crowd. "Beautiful lemmings. How can I blame you, you beautiful lemmings? These are chaotic times, are they not? Mmm yes, nod little lemmings. We all agree." The jester pulled loose a bell from his hat. He shook it, but it made no sound. "These are chaotic times! And what is more comforting in chaotic times than something to follow? And what better to follow than an entire world? A complete world! A world like this one! Wouldn''t we prefer it to be real rather than fantasy? This is a nice, simple world. In this world our roles are clear. You, my Highness, are the imperious and graceful Queen. Yes, you have a land to rule, and conspirators to thwart, and daughters to marry away to foreign lands, all very complicated and taxing but ¨C still! ¨C you know exactly what you must do." The jester bowed to The Queen. She nodded uneasily. "And you lot, you are the dastardly villains!" The jester wiggled his fingers with mock menace at the Sheriff''s men, who wore red and black. "I protest!" yelled the Sheriff of Nottingham. "Why protest? In another life, you could have been a floundering actor, starved for work, with a yearly dress-up festival furnishing your sole source of meaning! Be glad you are a villain instead! At least a villain knows what things to do, yes?" The jester counted them off his fingers. "A villain: schemes; murders, blackmails; tortures; bribes; spies ¨C yes? A villain knows what it means to succeed! Simply get more power and you win! Be glad you weren''t born in an age where no one knows what it means to succeed." The Sheriff stood dumbfounded. He looked up to the Queen for guidance. But the Queen merely blinked. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "And you, over there, you are the humdrum commonfolk. You may think you have it the worst, yes? You are neither hero nor villain, neither chancellor, nor treasurer, nor cardinal. No role to play! That''s what you might think. But you''ve been blessed with the best role of all: the role of no role. What''s expected of a commoner? What path, what purpose, what position are you supposed to aspire to? None at all! Just live your life! You are expected to be, to toil, to pray, and to die. "Imagine if you lived in a different time where perhaps not even death was guaranteed? Where every day brought new decisions: Who will I be? Who will I become? What am I to believe about the nature of the world? "Imagine being born into a time where everyone needed to concoct their own custom answers to the all the big questions! Where to live? What profession to enter? Who to call ''family?'' What to eat? Whether to be man or woman or neither? What cultures to join? Should I have children? What religion or political ideology should I place my faith in? "You might just go mad in such a time! You might see everyone around you going mad! You might see millions of people yearn to pitch themselves down the holes of distorted worldviews, of strange escapist fantasies ¨C anything to gain some certainty! Be thankful, commonfolk, for here, in England, under Her Majesty''s reign, all of your questions have been answered! "And ¨C last but least ¨C you, reader! Oh, to disappear within the words of a serial novel. To, for a moment, inhabit a fictional scene instead of your own muddled self. All you need to do right now is to read the next word. What glorious hypnosis!" Members of the audience looked confused. "Sorry, got ahead of myself. Another trick?" The jester removed some juggling balls from his pouch. He tossed them high into the air. But instead of catching them, all three fell to the ground. He walked up to a knight. He took the knight''s helmut and put it on a peasant woman. The peasant woman''s bonnet he placed on the head of a nobleman. The nobleman''s feathered cap he held in the air, as if preparing to replace his own jester''s cap, but then paused. He stuffed the feathered cap down his pants. "Didn''t see that coming? Did you?" "You rogue!" barked the nobleman. "Return my cap at once, lest you¨C¨C" But he was interrupted by the jester pointing at a strange object in the sky that left a white trail. What was that? A shooting star by daylight? A celestial sign from the Almighty? The jester cleared his throat and they all looked back at the jester. The jester brought his fist to his mouth and tried to fit it all inside. It would not fit. The jester shrugged. "Tah-dah!" There was silence. "Fine. You don''t need to clap for that one. That''s OK. OK, look, despite my lack of talent, I get around as a jester. I jest for The Queen. I jest for myself. And I jest for other lords. One lord ¨C let''s call him The Prince ¨C he believes we need to re-enchant the world. And you know, I''d like that too. But look at me, stupid jester, ruining the enchantment of this moment! We could be living amongst wizards! Heroes! Gods! Royalty! Should we try to re-enchant the world together?" The jester nodded again to a freckled woman in the audience. "Huzzah!" she yelled. "Re-enchant the world!" she chanted with the group around her. "Come on, I''ve ruined the mood and you''re all desperate for something to chant. Let''s chant! Re-enchant the world!" The audience picked up the chant: "Re-enchant the world! Re-enchant the world!" "Shhh! Be quiet!" the jester put one finger to his mouth. The crowd went silent once more. "Here''s the thing: you''re not ready. Only the mind that is free can experience true enchantment. Otherwise, it''s just more of this! Stiff roles! Stuck fantasies! Forms without life! The mere image of enchantment without the juice! Only the free mind can drink the juice. To let the juice be liquid! How will you drink if you turn everything solid? And you all wonder why you feel existentially constipated! "Have you ever seen a real solid? I haven''t. It''s just a trick of the eye. Fleeting appearance. Mere surface tension on liquid. To be free, you need to embrace the liquid nature of all things. To let them flow right through you. To relish in changeability, in chaos! To become capable of living in any role and dying at any time. Watch." The jester approached the minstrel. "Can I have that?" The minstrel passed his lute uncomfortably. The jester showed it to the gallery and the commonfolk. Then he broke it over one knee. "Thou artless fiend!" yelled the minstrel. "Worry not ¨C your instrument has not been broken, merely changed. Look!" The jester suddenly thrust the lute broken handle toward the Sheriff, startling him. The Sheriff, dazed, took the handle in his hands. The jester adjusted it so that the splintered end faced outward. Then the Sheriff was sent backpedaling as the jester made fencing movements. "You see?" he called to the crowd. "Even a hunk of wood is liquid. Its role is liquid." The crowd stayed silent. The jester hung his head. "No, you don''t see. You don''t want to see. Not while you can still fool yourself that everything is just one way. It''s going to take a betrayal for you to see. A betrayal of everything you know. You''ve seen rulers toppled. You''ve seen plague murder millions. And yet it''s not enough. You''ll always come back the illusion of solids. Anything to hold onto. No. The ability to hold itself must be broken if you are to be free. Otherwise you''ll just hold onto your idea of freedom, make it your whole identity, fix yet another thing! No, that won''t do. "A betrayal is needed. A deeper betrayal than ever before. A betrayal of reality itself. Ontological betrayal ¨C a betrayal of the categories of existence, a betrayal of the very capacity to categorize! It is only then ¨C when you have no idea what anything is, and when you''ve lost all hope of finding out ¨C only then will you become free." The jester scanned the crowd. "Oh dear. I''m boring you all. I''ve paused the story for too long. That''s what you''re here for, isn''t it? You''re here to be entranced. Not to listen to vague philosophical ramblings. You want there to be rising stakes, character development, and conflict. You don''t want to flounder in confusion ¨C not even for a minute. You want a pacing that will keep you spellbound ¨C a pacing with peaks and valleys just regular enough for you to feel relaxed but also just surprising enough to keep you engaged. You want to be carried along a narrative assembly line. You want standard narrative structure. Action. Sensory stimulation. Yet here I am, all tell and no show. "All right then." The jester clapped then branched out his hands again. "How about one final trick? I call it ontological betrayal. You''re going to hate it. But you''ll need to learn to love it. Ready? Are you ready for ontological betrayal? "All right then, a question for you all: There are some things in this scene that don''t belong here." He began to walk backwards toward Deshawn''s mother. "There are things that do not belong here, in Elizabethan England. Can you see them? Yes. You can see them. I can tell. But it''s one thing to see and another to notice." Now he was several paces from mother. If he didn''t stop his gait, he would soon trip over her. "You only let yourselves notice that which fits the rest of the pattern. That''s your problem! You''re always trying to fix the scene in one pattern, one way. But there are so many, many other ways. This is where true enchantment lies: in the fluidity of perception. Thus, I, the guy in the jester hat, hereby present to you: another way." The jester stopped right in front of Deshawn''s mother. Then he leapt out of the way to present her to all assembled. They watched mother squirm, shaking her hip to one side. What was she doing? A small sleek slab fell out of her pocket. Suddenly, it glowed. What? The jester cleared his throat. "Sheriff. That''s your cue." The Sheriff shook his head, as if waking from an afternoon nap. He followed the jester''s point finger to the glowing slab. For a moment, it seemed that an impulse to avert his eyes competed with an impulse to fixate on the mysterious object. Finally, he gained composure. Then he himself pointed at the glowing slab. "What now is this?"cried the Sheriff. "What unholy sorcery is this?" The crowd stirred. The Queen leaned forward in the gallery. "A magic stone?" breathed a bearded man to Deshawn''s left. The man straightened his pointy wide-brimmed hat. Then he darted out of the crowd. His robe fluttered behind him as he ran down a dusty road and into the woods. Deshawn looked back to mother. She brought her face down to the slab and began to press it with her nose. The slab now glowed in different colors! For a moment, everyone stood stock-still. Deshawn suddenly came into his senses. That was a phone. Mother was trying to call the cops. What he''d read about contagious genre-possession came rushing back. Some posts on the Psi-tings forum suggested that collective delusions could be broken by catastrophic anomalies ¨C events that broke radically from the tropes of the genre. Once a catastrophic anomaly occurred, it became possible to notice more and more deviations from the genre. And now Deshawn noticed that mother ¨C his mom ¨C was wearing strange clothing. 21st century clothing. Deshawn looked around. The common folk ¨C the festival attendees ¨C around him began to blink and frown. Now a reverse contagion was occurring: the 21st century was arguing for its own version of reality. The inner clash had begun. The queen stood up. The Sheriff of Nottingham''s eyes went wide. Deshawn remembered what one commenter had written online: All people possessed by a genre participate in channeling its will ¨C even those casting themselves as the oppressed. However, one must be especially wary of those who held the roles of power prescribed by a genre. They will do anything to reassert its framework. Which meant that this was a very, very dangerous moment. The jester grinned. "Witchcraft!" the Sheriff of Nottingham roared. "Witchcraft!" his henchmen yelled to the crowd. "Witchcraft!" the commonfolk repeated. The queen, face flushed, pointed at Deshawn''s mom: "Seize her!'' Deshawn broke from the crowd and into the pavilion. The Sheriff of Nottingham caught him before he could reach his mom. The Sheriff fished a phone out of Deshawn''s pocket. "See here!" he said, flaunting the phone to all assembled. The child is her sorcerous apprentice!" "Demons!" the crowd yelled. "Heretics! Blasphemers!" "Seize them both!" commanded the queen.
Next release: Deshawn and his mother meet a punishment suitable for witches. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com Burn Them Previously: Deshawn''s mother is put to trial. It''s interrupted by a strange interlude from the jester, St Lenny. But then it is determined that both she and her son are witches. --- "Don''t you worry, honey. We''re gonna get out of this," his mom said from the other side of the wooden stake. Deshawn didn''t see how. The knots that the sheriff''s henchmen had tied were pretty firm. Deshawn glanced around. The sun was setting, so it was harder to make out his surroundings. But his surroundings were not subtle: They were enveloped by trees and sneering actors and attendees, all dressed in festival-wear. The queen was nowhere to be seen. (In this role-system, the queen was probably above stake-burnings.) But her jester was there. Or, whoever the guy was. Deshawn remembered his name: St Lenny. Again, he was wearing different clothing. This time: a black leather cuirass with a bow and quiver strapped to his back. He leaned against the shoulder of the Sheriff, smiling broadly. It seemed that now the former jester was role-playing Guy of Gisborne, evil knight and lefthand man of the Sheriff of Nottingham. He squinted at Deshawn as if Deshawn were one of those optical illusions that you could only make out by staring the right way. St Lenny walked forward to the makeshift platform where the stake was mounted. He looked up at Deshawn. He shifted his chin sideways. "Do I not know thee?" Deshawn shook his head. "What dost thou inside thy noggin, young lad?" he pointed. "All thy ceaseless sorting of things. Yes, I do sense it in thee. Dost this endeavor serve thee any purpose? Save for keeping thee aloof from our world?" he asked, gesturing outwards. "Leave my son the fuck alone!" called Deshawn''s mom. "Shh, you." St Lenny snapped his hand together and Deshawn''s mom went quiet. He peered back at Deshawn. "Hmm. Yes. I feel that in some manner I do know thee." Deshawn tried to push back as St Lenny flooded into him. He erected dams, but Lenny simply cascaded under, over, and around them. "I see.... Yea, thou hast been in pursuit of us, hast thou not? Yea, I suspect I hath noticed thy snooping spirit, thou seeker." Oh crap. Deshawn suddenly realized who he was dealing with. St Lenny was the one that his Discord had been investigating for weeks. The one who''d been causing crazy psychic contagions across New York. He was the Instigator. "That''s right," St Lenny smirked, literally reading Deshawn''s mind. He broke from ye olde English and spoke in a low tone, "You should know something, friend: You can''t actually discover people like us without being discovered in return. Especially these days. So. Did you come here on purpose? You must have sensed that the Ren Faire is one of our favorite recruiting grounds, no? On some level? Ah, no ¨C you had no idea! Ha!" He clapped. "That''s rich. What a lovely coincidence." Deshawn looked away, towards the tops of the trees. "So unyielding! Just like your mom! And yet so unlike your mom. She loves her dogma, doesn''t she? ''Grr! Don''t tread on me!'' Boring. But you, you''re beyond dogma. You''re beyond...everything! Or at least you''d like to be. It''s beautiful, actually. I could see it all the way from the Queen''s gallery. I have an eye for these things. I suspect it''s why we were meant to meet. Did you like my speech? No, forget it, just tell me this: Am I right? About who you are? You''re the Mapmaker. I know I''m right." Deshawn squeezed his eyes closed. "Hehe! Look at you! You''re tied as tight as the knots on your wrists. Well, if you''re the one I think you are, then you''ll survive this. Probably. It might take some cracking of that egg you''ve built around yourself," St Lenny said, knocking with his fist on an imaginary shell, "And how glorious it would be to see it crack." St Lenny rubbed his hands together. "Well then. Good luck!" St Lenny stepped back and whispered something in the sheriff''s ear. "We shall proceed with the execution!" announced the Sheriff. Deshawn''s dad reach reached the edge of the clearing, panting from wheeling his Adventurer 3000 through the woods. He looked like someone who didn''t know what to do. Maybe some attendees broke off during the anomaly and called the cops, some desperate part of Deshawn hoped. Once more, he fingered the ropes binding his hands. But he knew that historical reenactment ¨C as a subculture ¨C overlapped heavily with the the demographic of kinksters. And kinksters knew their knots. A man entered the clearing with a blazing torch. Deshawn''s dad gaped as the man strode past. Deshawn wondered how the man had managed to light his torch without breaking genre. Flint and steel? Deshawn wondered lots of things to keep his sense of mortal panic at bay. It didn''t work. His mom felt it: "Dehuan, wht iff utt?" she said. "What?" "Ugh! That asshole did something to my mouth. What''s going on?" She could feel Deshawn''s panic but she couldn''t see the source of it. She couldn''t see the crowd parting. She couldn''t see the torchbearer striding solemnly toward them, the flaming branch casting shadows across the surrounding trees. Deshawn''s cheeks twitched in and out of a wince. "Burn the witches!" yelled the crowd. "Send them to hell!" Deshawn now felt his mom''s panic in return. She strained painfully around the edge of the stake to catch a glimpse. "No. You can''t be serious. There''s no way¨C¨C Baby, don''t you worry, your dad''s gonna figure something out. We''re gonna be laughing about this to your aunties at next Christmas." She didn''t mean anything she was saying. "I''m so sorry, honey. You warned us and I didn''t listen." She did meant that. The torchbearer was now standing directly beside them. Nausea swept over the Deshawn. He watched it infect a few of the closest people in the crowd; one began to wretch. "Mercy!" another cried. "There will be no mercy!" the sheriff cried in return. But then St Lenny whispered something else in the sheriff''s ear. "But we will give these heathens a final chance to repent!" the sheriff announced. The crowd looked surprised. "While we cannot save their souls in this world, mayhaps the Lord shall take pity upon their twisted souls for the next!" the sheriff explained. "Hear, hear!" someone shouted. It was the freckled woman from earlier. Now several in the crowd nodded. And others seconded: "Hear, hear!" They were Good Christians after all. The sheriff approached the stake where Deshawn and his mother were tied. "Any last words, heathens?" asked the sheriff. St Lenny and freckled woman giggled at this word: heathens. Where had Deshawn heard that term? He had bookmarked it before. It was the name of a group that should be on his maps. It had been posted on some forum. Wait a minute: forum. Forums. The Psi-tings forum. Genre possession. Catastrophic anomalies! Deshawn knew what he needed to do. But how should he do it? What words were so entrancingly modern that they could snap at least a few people here out of trance? He wasn''t sure if he knew any words like this. But he didn''t need to know them because his Columbia professor mom did. "Mom," he whispered. "I know how to get out of this. I need you to trust me. I need to do exactly what I say." "Tell me, baby. I promise I''ll listen. Tell me what to do." "Postmodern discourse." "What?" "Or ''critical theory.'' To be honest, I don''t really know what either of those phrases mean." The sheriff scowled. "Torchbearer, what are they saying?" The torchbearer looked baffled. Deshawn turned his head back towards his mom. "You said you''d trust me this time. You promised." "I did." Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. "Then shout about about all that stuff you talk about at the university. Like, uh, about feminism and postcolonialism and things like that." The torchbearer furrowed his brow at the mention of feminism. Deshawn''s mom sighed in frustration. "What good will that do?" "Remember that lecture where you said ''everything is text?'' Edit the text." Finally, he felt understanding wash over her. "All right, Deshawn. We''ve got this." "Speak up, heathens! Pronounce thy final words for us all to hear!" And so, his mom cleared her throat and bellowed her first spell: The Renaissance Faire is a performative space where predominantly white attendees engage in the costumed reenactment of a highly idealized and anachronistic version of precolonial European history! Everyone went silent. The torchbearer took a step back. "Did it work?" she asked Deshawn. Deshawn forced himself to stare at the faces in the crowd. "Keep going, I think it''s working!" he said. And so she continued: This event serves as a cultural simulacrum, reconstructing a sanitized, romanticized narrative that often glosses over the complex socio-political realities of the actual historical era! The Faire becomes a site for the indulgence of nostalgic feudal fantasies, conspicuously omitting the era''s inherent class stratifications, gender dynamics, and pervasive bigotry! Such indulgence reflects a selective historical engagement, one that privileges certain narratives while eliding the more problematic aspects of medieval society, thus perpetuating a Eurocentric perspective that can be critiqued for its implicit reinforcement of contemporary hegemonic structures! She spoke and the audience stumbled. They squeezed their faces open and closed as if they were seeing ghosts and couldn''t believe their eyes. One woman in a corset jumped forward to yell, "Listen not to yon traitor! She doth defied the Queen!" Deshawn''s mother stretched her head around the stake to catch a glimpse of the corsetted woman. Then she spoke: The corset functions as a corporeal instrument of patriarchal exploitation, designed to contort and constrict the female form in accordance with a fetishistic, phallocentric aesthetic ideal! The woman looked stunned. The body is a site of political discourse; the way in which we choose to adorn it symbolizes our implicit support or subversion of the colonization of the body by sociopolitical forces. Thus, the adorning of the body in archaic, Eurocentric costumes constitutes an implicit endorsement of racism, sexism, classism, and systemic violence! The crowd looked down at their costumes. The woman in the corset froze. Deshawn could feel the signature feeling of ideological conflict ripple across her mindspace. It echoed out to the people around her. Dewhsawn knew that, while historical reenactment typically attracted a conservative demographic, the Ren Faire in particular attracted a much more liberal crowd of cosplayers, artists, former theater kids and queer-identifying people, such as ¨C most likely, by the vibe of her ¨C this woman. He watched her retreat into the crowd in embarrassment. The Queen''s minstrel, struggling against himself, made one final, desperate attempt: "She casts spells! Silence the witch!" "Witch, huh?" said Deshawn''s mom, her voice now strong and confident. "Let us examine that term:" Our understanding of reality is mediated by language, thus we must interrogate its role in perpetuating oppressive power structures! In particular, let us critically deconstruct the term "witch" as a linguistic tool wielded to subjugate and vilify through a systemic process of othering! The word "witch" asserts itself as means by which the patriarchy reestablishes control when threatened by feminine power! The minstrel glanced around at the rest of the crowd. "I didn''t mean it that way!" he claimed. "I''m not a sexist!" "What strange words dost thou speaketh?" said a woman dressed as a peasant next to him. "Uh, I don''t know! I mean: I know not!" said the minstrel as he moved back toward the edge of the crowd. As his mom continued, St Lenny stared up the two of them in awe. He nodded to Deshawn as if to say well played. Then he whispered again in the sheriff''s ear. The sheriff frowned and looked at St Lenny. St Lenny nodded and tugged the sheriff toward the platform. The sheriff took out a dagger. Deshawn watched his dad try to wheel his way through the crowd. But the freckled woman took hold of the wheelchair''s frame and steered him off into the woods, cackling. "Dad!" Now the sheriff passed the dagger to the torchbearer. For a moment the torchbearer stood over them, turning the blade in a somersault across his palm. Deshawn smelled his sweat, felt his hesitation. "Mom!" Deshawn nudged her with his elbow. "Stop! Mom, stop!" "Yes, enough!" cried the sheriff over his mom''s words. "I''ve heard enough! Everyone!" He called out to the crowd. "Hear my words and heed them fast: we must bow!" Deshawn''s mom paused. "What did he say?" she muttered to Deshawn. "Our sheriff commands you all to bow!" yelled the freckled woman. Members of the audience, desperate for something to do, began to bow. The torchbearer approached with the knife. He cut Deshawn and his mom from the stake. They stood on the platform uncertainly while the sheriff began a speech. "May the Lord forgive us, for we have made a grievous error! These two are no witches. Nay! They are...prophets!" The audience gasped. "They are prophets of the Lord! Brought here to shame us into Christian humility! Indeed, did all of us not just wonder: ''What strange words she speaks. And yet it is as if these words somehow rule my heart! It is as if she speaks the truth!'' Yea! Indeed! For they are holy truths! Divine edicts! Prophecies from the world to come!" The sheriff climbed atop the platform, pushing the torchbearer out of the way. "It is we who must repent!" "We must repent!" called St Lenny. The crowd took up the phrase: "We repent!" "We must repent!" A maiden wept and covered her face. The minstrel groveled in the dirt. The falconer put his hands together and entreated the sky for mercy. Meanwhile St Lenny had danced around the edge of the clearing, shedding his costume. He circled to a region behind Deshawn where someone new stood, cloaked by the shadows of the trees. Multiple someones. Deshawn strained his eyes. He recognized one of them. It was bearded man in the pointy wide-brimmed hat, the one who had run off earlier during the trial. And, somehow, Deshawn also recognized the younger man next to the bearded one, who St Lenny was passing a bow and arrow. This man wore tights and an archer''s cap with a feather in it. The outfit was bright green ¨C which Deshawn realized was a Psi hallucination, since it was too dark to make out color. It was¨C¨C "Robinhood!" growled the sheriff. "You dare show your face in these¨C¨C" All eyes went from Robinhood to the sheriff. The actor playing the Sheriff of Nottingham now had an arrow shaft sticking out of his chest. The man gurgled and then collapsed. Everyone froze. Deshawn''s mom grabbed his hand. "Baby. It''s time to go." They hopped off the platform as Robin Hood''s Merry Men stormed the clearing. Friar Tuck landed a sandaled foot into the gut of one henchman. Little John walloped a second with his quarterstaff. Robinhood and Will Scarlett together climbed the platform, driving their shoulders into the torchbearer. The torchbearer teetered on the edge of the platform before plummeting to the ground with a dull thud. His torch rolled across the dirt, lighting leaves and twigs with fire. The rest of the crowd ran into all directions, screaming. Deshawn and his mom dodged as Little John tried to scoop them into his bearlike arms. "Wizards, we hath come to deliver thee from peril!" "No thank you!" his mom yelled back. But the Merry Men were trapped in their roles as heroes: They could not allow Deshawn and his mom to leave without saving them first. Maid Marion leapt through the flames to box a thug along the jaw. Then she grabbed the tail of Deshawn''s shirt. "Little sorcerer! Come with me!" "Hands off my son, lady!" Deshawn''s mom slapped her to the ground. "Wow, mom," Deshawn said, astonished. "Come on!" she took his hand again. But now the sheriff''s men were trying to save them too. They were prophets after all. A man in black doublet and breeches vaulted into their path. The fire glinted in his eyes. "Seers! I shall guard thee!" "Guard this," said Little John, nonsensically, as he swung with his quarterstaff. The sheriff''s man parried with his sword, cutting the quarterstaff in half. "Methinks thou wouldst name yon stick an eigthstaff now, wouldst thou not!" taunted the man in black, stroking his goatee. Good one, Deshawn thought, against all reason. Little John was staring at the splintered tip of his staff in bewilderment when the arrow pierced his neck. The sheriff''s man stumbled back, attempting to trace the arrow''s path. He glanced toward its likely source. It was Robinhood. He had misfired from the platform. Robin Hood stood in shock. "Little John, I...John, I meant to strike yon villain, not thee. Little John! Someone help him!" The sheriff''s man shifted, uncertain what his role dictated as blood spurted out of the actor playing Little John. "Oh my god." Deshawn was unable to look away. Was this more Psi-hallucination or were people really getting hurt? "Don''t look." His mom pulled him to the ground. "This way." They ducked into the woods. Deshawn pressed himself against a tree. He covered his ears against the clanging of swords and the crackling of the fire consuming the clearing behind them. "Deshawn, we need to go." "Just one minute," said Deshawn, panting. His mother hugged him. For a moment, hidden behind the tree, they caught their breath together. His mom gulped one last breath then said, "OK, come on, we need to find your dad." They stayed low, zig-zagging through the trees. But now the clangs of battle gave way to the clopping of hooves. A trumpet sounded. It was the queen''s reinforcements galloping straight towards them. "Hold!" shouts one of the three men on horseback. The horses skidded to a stop in front of Deshawn and his mother. A horse snorted in their faces. "God''s teeth! It''s them!" "Who goeth there? Thee pair, reveal thy names." "Captain, it''s the sorcerers. The sorcerers have escaped." Clearly these men had not yet learned that they were prophets. "By the saints, you''re right, it''s the two sorcerers!" "Three," said a voice from behind. Deshawn turned. It was the man with the pointy hat. The man activated the LED orb on top of his staff. It glowed with blue-white light. "Three sorcerers," he clarified. The horsemen laughed. "Step aside, old man," said the captain. "We havecCome hither on behalf of Her Majesty, the Queen." The bearded man stayed planted. "These two are under my protection. And this one," he said, pointing his staff at Deshawn, "Has yet to receive his quest. You would not get in the way of a wizard granting the chosen one his quest, would you?" The top of his staff now seemed to glow brighter. It cast a unearthly glow across the wrinkles of his face. The captain glanced to his companions. All three slid from their horses and drew their swords. Their blades and armor gleamed in the shine of the LED orb and the fire beyond. "Tis your final warning, greybeard. Step aside." The light of the orb now engulfed the scene. But Deshawn noticed that the shadows on the trees hadn''t changed. The light was hallucinatory. Some part of Deshawn''s mind ¨C still clinging to genre ¨C wanted to accept that this man was in fact a wizard wielding a magical staff. He wondered how bright the light must be for the queen''s knights, who advanced while shielding their eyes. Deshawn and his mother backed away. "Thine companions here appear not keen for battle," said the captain, his sword pointed at the wizard. "You wouldst thou contend with us alone?" "No," said the wizard. "Not alone." The man''s staff suddenly flashed, blinding them. "Azurigon! I summon thee!"
Next release: Dragons were a valid fear. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com Beware the Crone Previously: Deshawn and his mom, declared prophets rather than witches, are cut free from the stake. However, the Merry Men arrive and cause chaos by trying to save them from the sheriff''s men. --- Deshawn hid in the underbrush as the dragon set the rest of the forest ablaze. Trillions of genre-possessed neurons across the festival''s attendees were simulating the flames, and so Deshawn could feel not only their light, but also their heat. He gripped his knees, sweating, shuddering. Overhead, the dragon beat its wings, circling, its imaginary voice continuing to bellow, "...Emerge, young sojourner, and hear my charge! For destiny''s winds call thy name. Fear not, for I bring a quest of valor and truth, a journey that shall test thy mettle and unveil thy true strength. Heed my call, brave one, for fate awaits thy answer! I do seek thee for a purpose most glorious and..." Gran was up there too, in the sky. He knew he should look up at her, but he couldn''t stop moving his head from side to side. Deshawn shook his head, trying to rid himself of images, even though he knew it wouldn''t work. The images of actors pierced by arrows. The image of his mom, wailing, carried off by the wizard''s companions, the Merry Men. The image of the knights, chomped on by the dragon. At least this last image had been hallucinatory. He was pretty sure those guys in knight costumes were still alive. But he was also pretty sure that those other guys struck by arrows were dead. The blood had been too well-rendered to be all in his head. There was a sound in the distance: a siren. A firetruck''s siren! Presumably it was here to handle the parts of the fire that were real. The sound was something to orient towards. He rose from plants he been hiding in and set in that direction. It wasn''t long before he heard the voice of an old woman. "Little boy! Wait!" Deshawn slowed down. The woman came beside him and caught her breath. She walked, hunched, beside him, her hand wobbling as her walking stick pressed into the ground. "Little boy¨C¨C" "I''m 15." "And I am lost, little boy! Like you, I flee the dragon''s fires. Would you help an ancient soul find her way out of the dark forest?" Deshawn glanced in her direction. The old woman was covered in tattered cloth. It was difficult to make out her face. "What archetype are you?" "I beg your pardon?" "I mean, like, what medieval fantasy trope are you playing?" Deshawn knew that while some crone archetypes were safe, others were not. The wise hermit, for example, would probably do him no harm. But the wicked hag might try to eat him. "I''m sorry, young lad. I understand not your words." "Are you a wicked hag?" "My, my! Your locution cuts me like a sharp wind! But indeed, some have called me wicked, flung pebbles at my shadow, scorned the earth beneath my feet. They curse me not for my deeds, but for the blood that runs through my veins, for it sings of ancient roads and moonlit secrets. Yea, they hate what they do not understand, and so they hate my kind." "Right, what kind is that?" If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "I am but one of the wandering gypsies." "Gypsy. OK, thanks, got it." He knew what his mom would have to say about the ethnic stereotyping of gypsies. He also knew that he had to be careful. He was dealing with the old gypsy woman archetype, which ¨C in America ¨C actually had more to do with mythology than ethnicity. If the old gypsy liked you, she might grant you a magical amulet. If she didn''t, she might hex you for life. Of course, there were no such things as magical amulets and hexes, but that didn''t mean this gypsy couldn''t mess with him on a psychosomatic level. Deshawn had read a theory about this stuff on forums. The theory was that archetypes were useful for organizing society. Or ¨C what was the word?...adaptive. Over thousands of years, the groups that didn''t use archetypes all died out (or got killed by other groups more likely). The ones that did use archetypes survived. And so the theory was that the human unconscious came pre-programmed to respond to archetype-related stuff in automatic ways. That meant that if a witch like an old gypsy cursed you ¨C even if you were a super rational dude ¨C some part of you might really believe it. And then you''d start acting in ways that fit with being cursed, like making yourself sick or making bad decisions and stuff like that. Deshawn didn''t want to bet that he was immune to this effect...because he wasn''t immune to most effects. More like the opposite. So he assessed the danger. There were no other brains around to act as amplifiers for the gypsy''s memetic effects, so that was good. But, on the other hand, Deshawn had also taken in a fair amount of fantasy media in his life ¨C movies, novels, games ¨C lots of stuff that included the gypsy archetype. So that was bad. What were the other variables? What was it that he''d read? Oh, charisma. Charisma could increase the power of archetypical effects but he didn''t really know how to tell whether someone was charismatic or not. He must have been moving away from the gypsy, because she said, "You wouldn''t leave an old lady to wander the forest on her lonesome, would you?" Deshawn looked up at his gran. Gran smiled down, filling Deshawn with a tender glow. This lady was sorta like her. Even if she was possessed by a gypsy archetype, Deshawn couldn''t just leave her alone in the woods. He could take precautions. Precautions... Oh right: Deshawn already proven that modern language could counteract genre-possession. He could just use it again, but for himself. He came up with an extreme modernity mantra: gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton. He began to say the mantra over and over in his head: gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton It had a memorable rhythm. The woman noticed his new mental noise. She held up a gnarled finger. "You have some strange thinkings going on in there, young lad. He didn''t answer. The best thing to do would be to just keep walking towards the sirens in silence. The woman stared up past the canopy, where the dragon was still swirling. "Say, that great creature yapping up above. It''s wouldn''t happen to be yapping about you, would it?" She must have felt a hint of his recognition. "Aye, the creature is yapping about you! Well, well...how interesting.... You must be destined for great things. My, to have such a majestic beast with a stake in your fate.... Won''t you accept its quest?" "No," said Deshawn, assuring himself that it would be fine to answer as long as he kept the mantra going: gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton "And you haven''t accepted a quest from the wizard either?" Trepidation shot through Deshawn. "How do you know about that?" "Oh, us old magical folk, we wander around and meet each other on a dusty road here or there." "Do you know where he is? That wizard and his people are holding my mom hostage. Maybe my dad too." "Hostage, you say? I much doubt that. He seemed a kindly old gentleman to me¨C¨C" "If you know where my parents are, please tell me. Do you know where they are?" Deshawn felt bad for interrupting an old lady, but he was scared for his folks. "Hmm, can''t say I know off the top of my head, but¨C¨Cah...hmm..." "But what?" "There are higher powers that may know. Spirits. Ancestors. Divinities." Her eyes suddenly rolled back into her head. "Yes, the powers inform me that they have an answer to your question." Deshawn knew what came next. If indulging this woman''s archetype was what he needed to do to find his mom and dad, then so be it. "Fine. I guess you have some sort hut around here, or, like, one of those wagon houses? Or maybe a cave?" The woman looked around. She squinted. "Hmm. Yes, I recognize these trees. In fact, I do believe my shack is over yonder." "Right, a shack. OK, we can go there." The woman gave him a toothy smile. "Wonderful."
Next release: The old crone is not what she seems. Read ahead at Psychofauna.com It Is Your Destiny Previously: Deshawn meets an old lady in the Ren Faire''s forest. She seems to have clues as to where Deshawn''s parents might be. --- gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton He repeated his mantra as he followed the gypsy to her shack. She creaked open the door, which wasn''t much more than a few slats of wood nailed together at different angles. Deshawn stood outside while the gypsy faded into the shack''s murk. "My, my, isn''t it dark in here?" he heard her say. Then he heard the sound of a match being struck. A golden hue now emanated between the planks and sticks that made up the walls. "Come in, boy, come hither." The image of a bony beckoning finger passed through his mind. Deshawn took a step into the doorway. Then he stopped himself and averted his eyes. What the heck was he doing? Inside the shack were probably dozens of visual cues which could induce genre-possession: scrolls, tarot cards, potions, crystal balls, herbs, velvet curtains ¨C that kind of stuff. "Come boy, I''m receiving something, something from the ether. It''s about your mother. I sense she is near." "Where?" "I know not. Draw nearer. Your presence is required to properly attune to her essence." Deshawn steeled himself as best he could: gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton He stepped in. He was surprised at how bare the candlelit room was. It was small ¨C hardly big enough to fit both him and the gypsy ¨C and completely undecorated. There was only a table with a red sheet over it. On either side of the table were two rusty wrought-iron chairs. Wouldn''t someone playing a gypsy at this festival have prepared something more elaborate? Something was off. In his years of yearning to attend the RenFaire, Deshawn had read everything about it online. A lady like this one would have been trying to justify higher rates for "psychic readings" by decorating her shack. Maybe she was just well-known enough to do a more minimalist thing? "I know it''s austere," the woman said, sensing his line of thought. "But I am but a poor, old gypsy. Ah, here, I''ve found some incense." She lit it and the scent of jasmine filled the room. "That''s better. Here, sit." She indicated one of the chairs. Deshawn sat. "Give me your hands." "Why?" "I need to know more about you in order to answer this question of yours. What was it again?" "Where are my parents?" "Yes, good. Your hands please, palms up." Deshawn held out his palms. The woman pulled them close to her. She closed her eyes and ran her thumbs along his hands. "Very interesting. Very interesting. You don''t like being here, do you?" Deshawn looked around the shack. The candle cast long shadows across the walls. "I mean, it''s a little bit spooky here at night and all." "You misunderstand me. You don''t like being here. In the world. The world is a dangerous place for you." He gulped. "Yeah, I mean, with Psi and everything¨C¨C" "No. You''ve been like this for years. Maybe for your entire life. What happened to you? What made you reject the entire world? Ah..." She seemed to find something new in his palm. "But that''s not whole truth, is it? You''re not like the others, are you? Most who reject this world block it out, numb themselves. You, on the other hand...you can''t help but to take it all in. My, my, what a sensitive little boy you are. That must be very overwhelming." Deshawn looked down. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." No one had ever noticed that about him before, except his gran. "How lucky you are to have been deeply loved," she continued. "Very, very lucky. If not for that, wow, someone like you would not survive in this changed world. You would go mad. What a rare privilege." Changed world? The phrase caught Deshawn''s attention. Someone with Ren Faire genre-possession should have temporary amnesia about the Opening. Maybe she was referring to how this year''s Ren Faire saw a level of craziness that was almost certainly unprecedented. For a moment her eyes flicked open, wide with genuine shock. "What''s this?" Her eyes closed again, straining with concentration. "My, my! I see...worlds. There are worlds inside you, boy. And yet you are outside of them. It is as if you''ve cut the whole world up and put it into little boxes. Like a vast cabinet of curiosities. How odd. What an interesting way of denying the world. I need to know more. Tell me." No adult had ever been interested in his maps. "I like to make maps of things," he said. "Like, of memeplexes." "Memeplexes?" "Yeah, like subcultures and political ideologies and genres and stuff. I make maps of them." "Really?" "Oh, religions too. And art movements." "Tell me more. About these memeplexes. I sense they are important to you." "A memeplex is like ¨C I don''t know, I forget the technical definition. I sort of just know one when I see it. It''s like a bunch of interconnected beliefs and behaviors and ways of dressing and stuff like that. Diets, how you talk ¨C stuff like that. Social structures too, like who gets to be on top and who does what. Actually that jester guy before ¨C I don''t know if you were there or not..." The woman fluttered her eyelash extensions. "I was...and yet I was not." Typical cryptic gypsy stuff. Anyway, Deshawn had more to say: "Yeah so the jester guy...he was actually talking a lot about this type of thing. Memeplexes. Who does what roles and whatnot. Anyway, there are actually a lot of memeplexes we don''t even have a name for. There are a bunch that we don''t even have a metacategory for. Like, for example, I''ve noticed a bunch of dating subcultures on the apps that don''t have names yet. Like, ways people write dating profiles with long sentences and wear certain shapes of eyeglasses. They don''t seem to fall into any existing classification. The dating subcultures, I mean. I don''t date or anything like that. I''m just on the apps to see what''s going on." The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "Hmmm, indeed." "But yeah, I was making maps like this since I was 12, but they''ve become a lot more interesting now, obviously. You know, with, like, all these new memeplexes popping up. And how cultures are acting more like people now. I mean, they were always acting sort of like people. But cultures acts like people even more now, if you catch what I mean, like they have mind of their own, and¨C¨C Yeah." Deshawn cut himself off. He was rambling like that falcon guy from earlier. "These maps..." said the woman, "They must help you navigate, yes? Give you trailmarks amidst the overwhelm of the world, yes? What a clever way to tame it." "Uh, it''s just my hobby, I guess." "No, young lad. It is your destiny." Oh no. Here we go, thought Deshawn. But of course this was coming. Ever since he''d been assigned the role child of prophecy at the stake, the RenFaire wasn''t going to let him escape without granting him a quest. Might as well let it happen. gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton ...he continued to repeat in his head. He didn''t want to go crazy while the gypsy revealed his "destiny." "Does my ''destiny'' have anything to do with finding my parents." "Oh yes, their fates and yours are intimately intertwined. As are the fates of all of us, all beings of this earth. These maps you make...yes, they do are part of something greater. Much greater." He knew he should just play along. Instead he found himself saying, "I don''t know about that. It''s more just like a stamp collector situation. I''m just another hobbyist. I think of myself as being like those guys who just edit Wikipedia all day." "But these maps...they have given you a rare view. A profound view. The view from above! No. That is your problem. You seek to be above. Instead you must seek the view from between. The view which is at once between and within." "I don''t entirely get what you''re saying but I think you might have the wrong guy. I just kinda live my life, you know?" "Yes, indeed! You ''just live your life'' as you say. You do not aspire. You do not strive to fulfill the role of a hero, nor any role at all! It has been said that the emancipator shall be known not by their words, but by their way of being. It has been foretold!" "My way of being is literally to just sit in my room in front of my computer all day and sometimes play guitar." "This computer ¨C is it some sort of sorcerous artifact?" "Uh, sorta. It''s¨C¨C" "Shh!" Urgently she held one hand to her temple. "I am receiving something from the outer realms. I must read the signs..." She took out a few twigs from a fold in the rags covering her body and scattered them across the table. "Very interesting.... Yes.... Yes! I see it now. This computer...it is a very powerful instrument for a wizard such as thee. Tell me, this artifact, does it connect its wielder to the world as a whole?" "Mm, yeah actually, pretty much. Like, through the Internet. I use it to do my memeplex research, and to build my maps and all." "Yes, this implement has great power. And you are a powerful wielder of it. A power user!" Wait¨C¨Cdid the old lady just make a computer joke? That shouldn''t be possible if she was genre-possessed. Unless... The old woman snapped in front of his face. "Your full presence is required for this message. It is the most important message you shall receive today. Do I have your attention?" The woman caught him with her eyes. He felt that he could tumble into them forever. Deshawn shook his head: gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton The scent of jasmine filled his nose. Suddenly, its smoke felt suffocating. gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton The woman did something with her hand. Her eyes were unblinking. "Hear me, young man. For your quest is knocking. And you must open the door." Her pupils seemed to grow and grow. Deshawn felt some force working its way into him through shared mindspace. "Please stop," he said. gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton "This computer ¨C it connects you to the realm while it also disconnects you. It has swallowed you. The pulse of earthly connection can only be pointed to by our tools. You have followed the pointing. And so now you must commune with the world raw, unadorned by the blemish of words, unmarred by the veils of our contrivances. It cannot be known through maps; it can only be experienced as territory, through the felt textures of of its soil. Yea, one''s hands must become filthy with its soil." Deshawn tried to concentrate on his own thoughts: gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton Hm. These sounds in his mind...what did they mean? Their rhythm was compelling. Jen-dur floo-id inturnet O bamma reg-a-tuhn. Then some part of Deshawn realized his error: he''d forgotten to fill in the words of his extreme modernity mantra with content. Now they were just sounds without meaning. Ut oh. He focused whatever remained of his will on resisting whatever this gypsy lady was trying to put inside him. "Now, boy," the woman held out a necklace with a pendant, "Take this magic amulet. Wear it." "No!" "This world you reject...which you think has rejected you. This world...it needs you. Nay ¨C it wants you. Your fellow souls in this realm...you want them too, but you don''t yet know it. Yea, you are too too cowed by their shadows to see their light. Too frightened by their thorns to see the rose. "Will you drift through the mists of caution your entire life? Will you not thrive within the dance of the flame, the heart of the storm, the ocean both serene and tumultuous?" "OK yeah I get the metaphors, can you please stop." The old woman paused. "All right, fine. I''m bored by them too, tbh." Deshawn blinked. Tbh? It was an acronym, and definitely not one from medieval Europe. "Just let me give you one more thingy, OK?" The old woman raised one hand in a spell-casting gesture ¨C or, rather: a gesture meant to make him believe she was casting a spell. Deshawn mentally pressed against it. "Where. Are. My. Folks?" he strained out. "God damn, kid, you''re stubborn. What kind of teen turns down a grand destiny? And¨C¨Cugh, how do women wear these ¨C they''re so uncomfortable." The old woman pulled off each of her false lashes. But this person was neither old nor a woman. As St Lenny rubbed off his mascara, St Lenny realized that his costume hadn''t even been very convincing to begin with. Hadn''t he had a bunch of wrinkles though? No, the guy''s face had been the same the entire time. How had Deshawn fallen for it? "Here''s the thing, Deshawn¨C¨C" "How do you know my name?" "Oh, your momma wouldn''t stop hollering it: ''Deshawn! Deshawn! Bring me my boy, you fuckers!'' Golly, the mouth on that lady!" St Lenny straightened his spine. He began to unbury himself from his costume''s rags. In mindspace, Deshawn felt as if St Lenny was a snake shedding a used-up layer of skin. "I told your momma, ''We don''t have him. Your kid is too good at escaping.'' Little did I know how true that was...in more ways than one! Yes, little did I know..." he said, seeming to swirl the words on his tongue. Deshawn stood from his chair. "What do you want from me?" St Lenny looked up at him. "Isn''t it obvious?" "No." "I already told you. I want you to fulfill your destiny." "I''m not interested in your ideas about what I should do with my life." "That''s the thing ¨C me neither. You shouldn''t let anyone dictate your destiny. That''s a recipe for ugliness. But you know what''s even more ugly? Someone who is doing everything in his power to avoid his destiny. Yuck!" Deshawn cycled through his maps. What cult did this guy belong to? What ideology was he trying to impose? If Deshawn could figure that out, he might be able to get a handle on this situation. "It''s not about a set of ethics, kid. It''s a sense of aesthetics. I can''t stand to see what you''re doing to yourself. To watch a kindred spirit twist himself up so tightly. It''s just so...unsightly!" "Get out of my head!" Deshawn found himself yelling. "Oi, I got him to bark! Well that''s a step in the right direction. I''ll try not to take too much credit. Oh! But maybe...maybe I should! Hm. You know what you might need, D?" "No!" "You need...a lifecoach! A mentor! Hey, don''t take this the wrong way, but I''m looking at you right now and...well, you''re just not gonna get there on your own. I can''t let you stay locked in your room with your little compooter, being all sad and unpotentialized. I just can''t. And by that I mean I won''t. Here, take this amulet," he held out the necklace again, "It will help us keep in touch." "I''m not going to take your amulet." "Wow you''re really not gonna let me help, are you? Hm, a pickle...." St Lenny pounded the table then pointed at him. "Say, let''s cut a deal." "No deal! Give me my parents back!" "But you haven''t even heard the terms! The terms are as follows: As your new lifecoach, I get what I want: to watch you become great beyond your pea-sized imagination. And in return, you get what you want. You parents will be free to go. Physically speaking." "Physically speaking?" "Yes. The rest will be up to you." Deshawn thought back to the scene in the clearing. The arrow poking a hole in that man''s neck. Blood gooping out. The longer he stalled the bigger the chance that something like that might happen to his parents. "Fine, whatever!" he shouted. "Just tell me what you want me to do!" St Lenny grinned. "Just one thing: Open your mind."
Read ahead at Psychofauna.com The Prophetess Deshawn tripped over a root, dizzy from his encounter with St Lenny. His face met the spread of twigs that covered the forest floor. He breathed, sending dead pine needles flying. Then he pushed himself back up. Deshawn continued through the dark in the direction that Lenny had pointed him. He heaved himself over a fallen tree trunk. He nicked himself on a thorn bush. He leapt over a bubbling stream. Then he heard the sound: someone was shouting. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. He grabbed the amulet that St Lenny had given him and pulled it near to his heart. Gathering courage, he moved around a mossy boulder. There was light streaking through the trees. He grew closer. The sound was clearer now: a rhythmic bellowing, as if to invoke a pagan god. Closer: there were robed people carrying torches lit from the fires beyond. They were forming a ring. Closer: there were people prostrate on the forest floor. Closer: They were bowing, to whoever was delivering the sermon. Deshawn circled to see who they were bowing to. He ducked behind a patch of ferns and then he saw: It was his mom.
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