“...been rumors of war and wars that have been, the meaning of life has been lost in the wind, and some people thinkin’ that the end is close by, ‘stead of learnin’ to live they are learnin’ to die.” ––Bob Dylan
Itzel’s final memory log:
Earth. Four elements make up ninety percent of the planet…iron, oxygen, silicon, and magnesium. After a billion years, artistic forces wrestled away the chisel, and replaced it with a paintbrush. The first flowering tree was a magnolia. A palette of color washed over everything so that Earth became pleasing to the eye. Genesis was formed with those four raw materials, revised, and revised again. The development of humanity started out well, yet as the brain developed, a strange irony arose. You preferred the chisel to the brush.
CHAPTER 1
The Day the Music Died
The music stopped. How did that happen? Before Max died…no, before that; when? Here I sit, still as death, snuggled into his favorite chair, surprised at how quickly life dissolves when it loses meaning. Yes…there’s my answer. The music stopped when I no longer served a purpose.
The coffee was cold in Itzel’s mug, yet she continued to sip because there was nothing else to do. A teardrop gathered in the corner of her eye, and she willed it not to flow. Crying was useless when no one was around to comfort you.
Itzel pushed herself out of the chair and walked to the kitchen window. A soft rain floated to the street. She thought of going to see the new movie everyone was raving about. She opened the window to hear the sound of the rain. The ambient songbird program had ceased when the first drops were picked up by sensors, and would resume shortly after the rain ended. It’d been years since she’d seen a live bird, although it was reported that numbers were up slightly.
Itzel strolled into the office and stared at WallEye. She and Max had never been able to afford Holovision. WallEye provided a flat dimension, yet it was better than nothing. She needed to find something…anything that would fill this void. She began sifting through channels,shush, shush, shush, stopping for a moment to switch to the network. From there she could surf the web, make phone video calls, play virtual games.
Perhaps I should call a friend…no, they won’t want to be disturbed. Each had lives that were separated from work…even family. They needed space. She hated the botheredsound in the voices when she called friends. If Max were alive, he’d be in his chair watching WallEye…already dead in so many ways. Sometimes she felt guilty for not missing him much, but he’d been more companion than husband; a comfortable quilt providing warmth and security without really meaning to.
Without thinking, the words escaped from her lips.“No reason to go on.” She stared at WallEye, and an advertisement materialized. Her words had prompted popups, businesses that hawked quick-fix happiness.
“That one,” she pointed.
A large logo for RepliCan slowly dissolved, and was replaced by a smiling, well-dressed man.
“Hello, Itzel.”
“Hey.”
“We know why you’re here.”
“Doubt that.”
“We can’t blame you for being cynical.”
“Cut the dog’n’pony; what kind of snake oil you selling?”
“Relief for an aching heart; tonic for loneliness.”
“Happy pills?”
He shook his head. “We offer joy you can touch.”
“Replicas?”
“At competitive prices, satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back.”
“What’s the damage?”
“Analysis shows that you pre-qualify for a 2093 refurbished M3 of your choice.” Her current bank balance popped up.
Itzel had never dreamed of such a thing. Acquaintances raved about them, yet she and Max had never discussed investing in one.
“Try for a month, and if you’re not completely satisfied, you’ll get a full refund.”
“Show me a demo,” she said.
“Very good, Itzel—beautiful name by the way—let me know if you’ve any questions. My name’s Tom, and it’s been a pleasure to serve you.”
Tom’s image dissolved, replaced by an M3 demo compilation, with an optional icon if she wanted to see replica’s going beyond the call of duty. But the onset of menopause had reduced her sexual appetite to a tiny pilot-flame. Another feature caught her attention. A serious looking man in a white lab coat said, “Here at RepliCan, we’re able to customize to your specific needs.”The scene changed to an old woman opening her front door, and being faced with a replica of her dead mother. A tearful reunion followed and the image faded, replaced by a father playing with a deceased daughter, a wife reunited with a missing husband…all programmed with real memories and crafted to look, and feel, authentic.
A shiver ran down Itzel’s spine, yet an idea took shape in her mind, and she smiled self-indulgently. “The King,” she murmured.
“The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone”. —George Eliot
In small towns, desperate dreams are engineered, seldom built. According to Google, Meadowland is hardly anywhere—a blip midway along a gash known as the San Joaquin Valley. Closer inspection reveals green alfalfa fields of sprouting ambitions. Meadowland’s a small California town like most others, populated with dreamers. Some reach for stars—most are content to gaze up at them from the safety of frayed lawn chairs.
When July the fourth rolls around, children beg parents to take them to the Meadowland fairgrounds. At nine o’clock there’s a fireworks show there.
“You can see them from the front yard,” they’re told by parents.
Kids argue, “Not the same as being there.”
With each successive generation, children grow less likely to argue about fireworks. As the world expands, humanity contracts, until one day we’ll all disappear deep inside the social networks.
Weather can be factored into how people act upon dreams. Here’s how Meadowland seasons circulate: Winter ushers in dry, brittle cold, and yet it rarely snows. In springtime windows are left wide open to breathe in the voices of youngsters playing outside. The tangy air fosters separate hopes. Like faith, hope can’t be explained, only believed in.
Springtime’s too short. Wild mountain flowers make a brief appearance, and just as you reach to touch, they curl back like the slippers worn by the wicked witch of the East.
Meadowland summers are hot and dry. Hope is born in the early morning and withers by midday around two. Any dreams you may have are baked out of your head.
Fall’s an attitude. Leaves hang-glide to earth, children are scolded for not raking them, and adults look inward. Their reflective nature this time of year may originate with the spicy smell of autumn—nature preparing to hide Her secrets for a winter siesta.
Citizens of Meadowland embrace fall. New rains rinse away old dreams to be replaced by new ones. Meadowland dreams are as refreshing as the breeze they blow in on—so soothing that most sit to admire them as they stray lazily away, not thinking to follow until the final wisp has faded. By then the trash needs emptying, cars need washing, Facebook needs checking, and a favorite TV show will be on in half an hour.
The end of fall is a bad time to stop at a Meadowland gas station for directions. Most of the town is deep in mourning for dreams that have drifted just out of reach.
“Look Karen, there’s a monkey in our yard.” Michael approached the front gate and pointed to Jimmy. Karen giggled. “What you doin’ monkey-boy?”
“I’m not a monkey!”
“Sure you are. Doc Parkinson chopped off your tail when you were born, but they couldn’t do nothin’ about the rest of yuh.”
Jimmy pursed his lips and focused on the freshly covered Indian grave.
“He’s burying a banana to eat later.” Karen added.
Michael cackled and squatted next to his little brother. “Ooo-ooo ah-ahhh!”
“Lemme alone!”
“Bet you could climb this ol’ walnut tree, lickety-split.”
“Shut up!”
“Mmmonkey.”
“Shut up!”
Karen added, “Roses are red, violets are blue, you look like a monkey and you smell like one too.”
Jimmy stood to face his adversaries. “You’re both monkeys!”
“What’s going on out here?” Mother was standing in the front doorway.
Jimmy’s face was pinched with anger.
“Nothin’.” Michael answered.
“Doesn’t sound like nothin’,” she said.
“Jokin’ around.”
“Be nice to your brother.”
Monkey, Michael thought. “Okay.”
“You too young lady.”
“Alright.”
The door closed. Jimmy was facing Michael. His teeth were clenched. “Hate your guts and wish you were dead.”
Michael pitched himself to the ground and lay still.
“See what you did?” Karen said. “You killed him.”
“He’s not dead.”
“Look at ‘im.”
“Mom!” Jimmy yelled.
“Shut up. I can bring him back. Anybody in the club has the power.” She bent over Michael. “Trizzle-trazzle-trozzle-trup, time for Michael to wake up.” She waved a hand over her big brother’s limp body.
Michael sat up. “W-what happened? It was so dark.”
“See, it worked.” Karen said. Then they sang in unison. “Camp’n’wee is Carl, Carl means good, Zemo means bad.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jimmy wanted to know.
“It’s a secret,” Karen said.
“Hey sis,” Mike continued. “Should we initiate Jimmy into the club.”
“Think he’s ready?”
“What you think, monkey? Got what it takes?”
