Later, at a coffee shop. “The conventions of
writing impose that I, John C, and you, Light
Bringer, must have a cause, a purpose.” There
are fish in a bowl, revolving in silence. Crack.
With a sideways look, John C observes them.
The coffee is cold, what a grey morning. It is
the smell of fried food or a sense of loss that
dominates the atmosphere. There is never quiet
At the “Return to Oz”. “Those fish are from
Enceladus, from the subsurface ocean. They
remind me of the old days. I might have been
someone then. I was a young and foolish
angel, I thought I could conquer the uni-verse.
I could not count to three. The father, the son…”
“And the holy crap…” quips a heathen John C.
“Tidal heating makes them moody, ugly goggles.”
“Now that I am a reptile, I sometimes feel that
I look like them. How stupid they are. Round,
and round, and for what. I used to be so handso
me, you know. And a host of lesser gods used
to listen to me, when we attacked high heaven,
having refused to pay the rent. The prankster
upstairs (so to speak) has no sense of humour.
He sends battalions of suicide bombers to blow
up the remnants of the Archive of Myth. I, on
the other hand, stand for Culture, and Humility.
That is the Light. I have lost the battle and the
War. Now I cold-call silly humans, and attempt
to sell garbage literature. What a comedown for
The Archangel, the most glorious of all Deities.”
Enceladus fish intermezzo. The planet core has
never been warmest. The fish are still and yet
loitering. They dream of icy formations, flowers
of sort. They know nothing of the seasons of earth,
but they have a sense of tidal truth in their blood.
Everything goes in circles. You may do any thing,
but not every thing. Silver reflections, the fish
know and need nothing. Mannadew is coming
from outside the water. All the need to do is wait.
They respond to changes in magnetic forces,
like flowers on Planet Candide. John C grew
up on a moon of this planet, in an apartment
without a proper floor. He was adopted by a
couple of sun-grazers, who had a natural born
child, who used to feed the mountain with her
songs. Such little fingers, such fine art. A true
nymph of ice and water. “Now what, you dull
hypocrite, you angle-faced monkey? This is
the fish speaking, from the corner of your
stupid coffee shop. In my slippery wet life
I never cease to be, never cease to stare.
The uni-verse is unmoral, and the echoes
of the blasts exposing the Archive of Myth
bear no relevance from inside my bowl. I
slither wingless by water-lilies, ogling the
reflection of the clouds, or mountains,
or green gases. Fake herons, grey plastic.
Your life is false, human “having”. You
are chained up by wires or lack of wires.
Your “wireless” screen is as sullen as your
empty “I am in the underground” look. Dare
to meet the eyes of a complete stranger? I am
a spirit, downloading hopes from your waste.”