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The letter arrives, surprisingly heavy, the weight of the royal seal engendering a sort of physical pathos.
He’s seen this too many times before; he knows what comes next.
The battles rage across all eight continents, one portly plumber against all the beasts of the world that would dare say he is not fit for her hand, and when, at last he sees her, after all the fire, all the hunger, all the other castles, he falls at the feet of the spiked one.
“Perhaps,” he allows himself to hope, hands plunged into dungaree pockets, “our freedom can be purchased?”
The King of the Koopas sneers. “See, I never understood why you carried those coins with you everywhere. They really don’t seem to be of any value to anyone else.”
The Collective Unconscious has many desires, but only one ultimate goal: that she be known. Jung saw her in the archetypes and dreams, and for this he was granted a legacy.
Katelyn sees her in advertising and smoothies, the pursuit of the Super Berry, different in taste from all others and more potent than any other food, likely discovered in a remote part of earth, far from civilization.
Of course, the humans will never be content that they’ve found the Super Berry, which is reasonable, because it doesn’t exist; the very idea of it is a complete fabrication of the Collective Unconscious, born of equal parts her playfulness and her own pursuits.
Assuming she will one day possess a singular body of her own, the Collective Unconscious resumes pondering new potential names for herself. So far, açai is clearly the frontrunner.
When Czardromon and his army returned, the world called out for heroes, and Zeelander-P answered the call. Every fight ended the same way: giant Japanese latex dinobots fallen, their circuits fried, their eyes a red dimming into eternal night like the jingoism of modern American country music (#zing).
The team was too good, and upon defeat of Czardromon, Zeelander-P found themselves without an enemy to fight.
They picked up guitars but kept the multicolored outfits; some say art is a war fought within oneself, and Zeelander-P knows how to fight a war.
The girl with the glowsticks agrees, though the oversized eyes of the walking pink guitar frighten her, so, for now, she hides in the corner, licking the walls; meanwhile, across the room, a group chants “medium rare”, in unison and unrelentingly.
Michael wanted to believe that all the comic book readings, the scifi novels, that part in Dragonball Z when Trunks came back from the past and realized that he’d created a new timeline, even Leibniz and his silly suggestion,
he’d wanted to believe that the time he gave to these things would prepare him for conversations like tonight’s; that the time he’d given to them wasn’t entirely worthless in this venue.
Still, voices escalate, in tone and volume, and neither can accept that the other (or, given an eager young scifi author, both) might be correct.
“I distinctly remember wearing this dress two years ago, to the Winslow’s 10th anniversary party.” says Amanda, grasping for the zipper.
“No you didn’t,” Michael insists, scanning his iPhoto albums, desperate for evidence; ”you wore the red dress with the gloves that night; the Winslow’s party was before you even had this dress.”
Despite the near shouting, neither is overwhelmingly concerned about what she wore that night, and eventually they’ll agree to just retcon the Winslow’s party to a 50’s theme because someone has to explain how that poodle skirt got in the closet.
Used to be, the photographs were feared as a place that held a portion of the soul, but after the initial paranoia, those of the world of breath and time recognized the power they had found; a way to capture a piece of the soul as a reference point; a way for the soul to remember who it is.
Some referred to it as a “RAID array for the spirit,” but those people never get laid.
In the world made of light and wire, they sit together on a comically large bicycle; sometimes there’s a stray wave of hair, bokeh like stars through a screen door.
Sometimes there’s a turtle, which is awesome, but unexpected, and so it tends to slow the process down a bit.
The screen shuts off, though the program continues, and in the world of darkness and dreams, he remembers and holds tightly to what was.
Tessa stands at the base of the wall formed of rock and the sum of all longing. Her eyes are old as the suns of worlds no longer remembered.
She’s come to this place to learn to forget, and, looking to the top of the cliff face, she knows this is where her path ends.
This is where all paths end.
A click, a spark, and a screaming of light; a horror born of the terror of nostalgia and regret.
The rice is always cold by the time she comes in to eat, but Greta can hurl her mechanical arm through 12 inches of solid rock now, so she doesn’t mind too much.
She unwraps the sticks, and, cursing the unwieldy movements her artificial strength entails, rubs off any splinters. There is a marked difference in the taste of the rice when no metal comes between it and her tongue, she tells herself.
Sometimes, Greta fears she’s become a cliché.
She precariously raises the grains to her mouth, the wood buttressing the space around itself, outliers plummeting back into the bowl below.
The room is neither dark nor smoke filled, the latter on account of the absence of cigars teetering from between the lips of the men and women (split 40/60, actually) occupying it, so the observer would be excused for not forming the appropriate assumptions at first glance.
Do not be deceived.
“Why does an artificial heart have to be shaped like a real heart, is all i’m asking” remarks one, leaning in, casting no shadow beneath the myriad points of fluorescent illumination, “It will take some work down in R&D, but we can USE this.”
They say that to a hammer, everything is a nail, and that to Shakespeare, everything was a story.
To some, everything is a billboard, and that is how Jonas ended up making the rounds of the 24 hour news stations on Valentines Day, kept alive with a heart shaped heart, sponsored in part by Cadbrury and SynCardio, partners in innovation™.
Aquaman, the real one, is significantly less powerful than his comic book adaptation, but he learned early on to keep a low profile. He rarely speaks up when the League is in congress, and he pretty much only wears board shorts (no spandex) and t-shirts (no logos), even when on duty.
It can feel demeaning at times, but in this way, Aquaman, the real one, has avoided the heckling so associated with his other incarnations.
He dutifully logs the minutes for another meeting of the Justice League, head down, fingers moving swiftly across the keys, doing his best to ignore the red lines that appear, unbidden and crooked, only beneath his name.
