Copyright 2017 Richards Hall and e.
Published by Richards Hall and e. at Shakespir
Silent . . . Distant . . . Partner
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The dark is not a bad. It may be worse-than-good more than it is good, but it does have a good count.
It’s a question of quantification, and negativity exists to work away the worse-than-good count.
If one’s worse-than-good count was high, well, yeah, negativity might not be their friendliest ally, and the wiiirl-D was a bullet of allies.
A bulllet . . . gettting . . . biggger . . . baddder . . . bettter – come what may.
. . . ready to take on
. . . come what may
. . . may it come
Bring it on already.
The Satur’nites saw it this way, what with their being the agents of vision that they were – E4’s were agents of corporeal computation on behalf of an EARTH, moving information back and forth to keep the EARTH on the move and informed, and imagining, and intelligent.
Take it a step further, E4’s were artificial intelligence incarnate, devised to service EARTH as masters of fueling and the production of fertilizing, fueling, potential.
Should have been. Their calling was high, and trashed devilishly by the defamation of word, the tool and weapon of delivery. Were they to crash, further steps would have to be taken.
Question one to be discarded, where exactly was that EARTH, as one of others?
It was elsewhere, safe and warm. Perhaps nesting. Perhaps.
IT. The one IT, but not the only IT. And IT and the others fought and played hard and fast. Faster than an E4 could ever hope for, while sinking into lusting to ride the bullet rather than be the bullet.
A couple of hundred words on dark, and darkness. 140. Among all the other things we live in, we live in the dark and the darkness. At worst living in dark in such a way as to be told – to an extreme as a victim of popularity contests – what to eat, what to listen to, what to buy – what to hunger for, and hunger is a given, gotta live with it.
Living in darkness is another given, but thinking about hunger is one thing, thinking about it all of the time is another. If one can’t accept I am trying to be critical on an up beat, facing a downward crush, fine, there is plenty of space for you in the dark and the darkness and people selling more of it.
Guess they gotta eat.
I considered setting the story premise, to an extent, as it is an item in the development of a larger story, and this amble is a fiction within a fiction within a fiction.
. . . an organ within an organism within an organ . . .
Maybe that’s enough of a set up. So damn the torpedoes, screw guidance, let the entertainment commence, bearing in mind ‘It’ takes place on EARTHverse 444.
So say, ‘tag’.
It’s time to meet Aunt Hillie, as she is now ‘It’.
Hillie awoke knowing straight off something was off.
Aunt Hillie , the third invisible reader to be, alongside Jules Iffen and Jake Nder.
Awoke-ishly awoke. The dream she had been having having had morphed into her awakening. It had morphed her awakening away. She was clearly out of the dream and awake, in surroundings as she expected to know them, but it was as if she hadn’t physically awoken. The momentary act of the lights switching on hadn’t happened.
Not that it was to be expected, and it wasn’t, it hadn’t been imagined, but eventually something had to give.
Yes, Hillie knew the surroundings, but she no longer understood them.
Apart from an else.
Apart from It. ‘It’ . . . as some item . . . apart from ‘it’. ’it’ as any thing, other or else. Or ‘it’ as every other thing, other or else. Please note, I am not going to keep pointing ‘It’ out as ‘It’. So watch for It, as is, as it. Obviously, It is a little like it. Even a lot like it. Fact of the matter is, It is it, most of the time. Near one and the same, just not quite all of the time. If you’re starting to think you might want or need a drink, now may be the time to go and get it.
Hillie did understand It, to a point, because It was telling her what it wanted her to know.
And then some.
The . . . then-some . . . that made it, It.
Capitalization. From the alchemy of making imaginary money from gold, and then from other people’s time.
Tool of construction. Weapon of destruction. Understand and know it’s place, or else.
Hillie was old. OHHH h h h LLLllldddDDD. How many ways could one spell it? How many times did one have to sell it? So old so as to have had every replace-able bone, joint, organ, drop of blood and idea replaced and or upgraded. Some more than once. It might seem otherwise, but she was a healthy specimen. Always was. Always were.
And now she realized the intelligence of her situation had taken over. Right on down to replacing her blood flow. From then on moving would get easy and effortless, but ever more unwieldy. Her wholly artificial organism, as in no longer having truly any piece of her original package worth having, apart from the wrapper and a speck of brain still timing her presence and existence, was taking command of the situation.
Had taken command . . .
Presence and existence – the thinking about what was present and what existed. ‘ence’ words. Along with ‘ance’ words and ‘ism’s, making up a trilogy of quant?m infinites. Perhaps there were more. Maybe call quant?m infinite a mind constant that sensations flow through after being vortex’d in.
The parts of what was new Aunt Hillie were working so hard to survive, were so dependent on one another and were in such dire need of being able to trust one another, that they had simply started to ignore her waning capacity to command. To command and to time.
Waning – as in command completely gone apart from an observational and commentary capacity, with a touch of memory ability but no storage for it. As was, her replacement body was legally detached from her all but timed-out, enfeebled brain and, by default, her mind . . . both grown clouded-over with the natural collection of common dementia as replaces brain rot – common dementia, a woeful fact of life, as opposed to wanton, engineered dementia, a wrongful act opposed to life.
So now, It – her very own uncontrolled updated it – was ready for business and state-owned with no mind of its own.
And the state was a total unknown.
Unknown even to the state.
Happens to everyone, brain – and body – rot, not body replacement, although not until after death for the lucky few. The unlucky few? Brain rot, that is – any rot – doesn’t really get going until after death. The next nosh zone. If you’re lucky, and die before nosh time.
Although it’s always nosh time for the process of elimination.
Along with the next, further, process of elimination, when not short changed by flames.
Looking at herself . . . her-not-her . . . true and near permanent . . . It-self . . . she heard It, or felt It, come up with a thought that made her cringe, if only theoretically. It, as it were, was no cringing violet.
And so It did, with Hillie in tow. It’s just going to be a mess any which way, so we’re naming her it, It. Naming, a bold move, as difficult as accurately differentiating it from It.
Soon, OH so soon, she realized she had become a ghost – an involuntary go’ist just along for the ride, weeeeeeee . . . – within this non-item of alien intelligence. She knew this because her mind was coming free, free of her brain, free of her body, free of it all, and all of any and every it . . . as other it and its, were on the way.
It . . . as all . . . that was not her, apart from a little bit of It as was seen as her.
And It was hungry.
And worse, It, teaming with and teaming against . . . it and its, were all also up against IT, which is simply going too far for now. IT = devilry? – the top dog that will eat just about anything, one tooth shy of able to eat darkness and nothingness and even lightness? Heck, lightness goes first. Light as illuminates difference. Difference, the thinking of what is different, sometimes via light.
While IT – IT, not It – was eye’ing up everywhere, not needing you, or light, or eyes, just tongue. And with tongue, the ability to command. As in, “Come to me. I hunger.”
And it just may have to get messy, messy, messier.
Because IT does have to eat, and that in itself is no crime, even as IT is caged every way possible to keep IT at bay.
Still, one way or another, IT get’s out, while every other it out there seems to be competing to take IT’s place.
That said, I think I understand IT. I don’t know IT, can’t put IT into words, but I’m on the way to an understanding – on the way, not quite there – of it, It and IT. Of note, as Aunt Hillie and It took place on EARTHverse 444, devilry was not a word in their vocabulary. Just sayin’. And whatever is behind IT, irregardless of might, which I do not understand whatsoever, may have the same bitch of a problem with IT that we have. And believe it or not, that should be encouraging.
IT can be frozen in place, and held at bay that way. Alas, frozen in place as a stain on the fabric of hell may not come without payback come a thaw.
At the risk of losing context, is the story of the flood a story of GOD’s wrath? Or a story of the Devil getting payback? He may be creating Hell, but still, he wants it done right, fixed in place, free from the threat of imagination which might cause a gate to fall down once in a while. He wants at the very least that the taste of his Hellishness lasts for eternity.
So sit on your hands and hope for handouts.
Bill, of course, as in Bill Branson, of particle shoppe fame. Wanna-be god of pig and rodent. A spirit guide, one might say.
Also, of course, that flood tale would about the flood of darkness that came to engulf Verse 444.
And as with devilry . . . GOD and Devil were not in the E4 vocabulary, either, but they were relative to that story explaining away E4’s V4 reality. Nor was planet an idea either, FYI. Perhaps think of E4’s as humanoid life forms that fully developed in eight months, a double four, rather than nine, with fewer parts, maybe lessor parts and thus less to understand, and thus less to know, and less to accomplish, by design, and leaving less of a trace for anyone else to date, carbon, carbine or otherwise.
Bearing in mind It’s father was a mean cuss who sat on the porch with a shotgun lest any court’er think to come or call.
Satur’nite science, which is a difficult conundrum to fathom as it originated unconnected to fiction, saw the fictional interface of E4’s in terms of four. E4’s, a sort of you out there, as an E6, safely orbiting who and what’s in here, but different, and differently timed.
As for the terms of four . . .
One, there was pre-fyction. Complete unknown regarding what was . . . what was where when . . . and what the hell altogether.
One, there was fyction. The is as is. The was as is. Perhaps fyction was the basis of real, in need of fictionalizing for the sake of presentation and reality, looking for a working premise and real premises to live on via re-presentation. Call was as is what you will – name it, or misname it, at your peril. Peril as in naming it, IT, or naming word something without the power of word. Time comes, that could cause a confrontation over identity ownership.
One, there was fiction, which placed where . . . was as is . . . was. Mostly, fiction was a lot of fiction, the grip that delivered . . . was as is . . . as well as possible, or as badly and malevolently as desired, as was the way of the cults of crumble, collapse and collect working hand in hand with the cults of injustice and indifference, as stewed in the habitat for criminality, lying about lying, while lying in wait for who knew what.
Or waited for simply simple it to take them away. So calm, so peaceful it will be coming, wagging it’s tongue. It’s big, bigg, biggg tongue.
Four, there was the rule Satur’nites were reluctant to call a rule, and generally didn’t. Not calling out rules was about the only rule they valued. So they fudged on calling out rules. The reluctant rule fudged as r4ule was . . . was as is . . . was married to . . . was as were. They were absolutely certain that calling that a rule would set off the race to break it, to divorce . . . was as is . . . from . . . was as were.
They knew the . . . how . . . to do that, and knew to embrace it rather than fight it. At least embrace ‘It’ – if you get my drift.
Bring space. Create separation. Design distance.
If not in that order.
And as for BCD, that was a different one. OH, heck, I wasn’t going to share, but it’s so bleak anyway, today.
Betray, Crunch, Destroy is yet a different BCD. A different stain of legalese, a plague of the rotted out and hollow. And it was arguable as to whether it was for a good cause or not. A pairing up to de-create creation by unwriting natural law and do away with false writers of false laws along with every false ally on their path to falsehood.
So if I see you in court, counselor, don’t expect to see my back.
And SATURN’ixm had the Satur’nites OH so ready for that race, presenting Aunt Hillie as their mother to be, if never more than that. To repeat, mother to be . . . never as is or was. To be to be to be. Speak to us, Hamlet, OH child of ham. Beware the presenters of reality who only perform without really living it out loud.
As for Satur’nite mathing, OH boy, let’s just look at their counting system, presuming you can see it. 1, 1, 1, 4, 1, 1, 1, 4, 1, 1, 1, 4, 1, 1, 1, one, 1, 1, 1, 4, 1, 1, 1, 4 . . . and so on and so forth unto insanity.
So forth. How otherwise?
1, 1, 1, 4. Ongoing bars or one repeating gate? Take your pick. Maybe 4’s were holding-cells.
At least that mathing demo was brief.
Aren’t you glad you asked, even if you didn’t? If by chance you understand it, Mulligan’s is hiring.
For that matter, so is Triton.
AH yes, the philosophy is hogwash, but that employment notion is tempting. Liberty . . . come to poppa.
A funny thing happened on the way to armageddon, apart from arm and geddon with it. SATURN’ixm. Hillie saw it. Did It?
Yes, It did. In a dream, as It was always half-dream, and a half-lie of a half-aware existence devoid of truth of immediacy and any time constraints, SATURN’ixm spoke to It. “Why not this way?” SATURN’ixm asked, if not in so many words.
I, for one, tend to stop counting after one one one.
A way that would be a fourth way, away from the first way of absolute hunger and infinite self-ingestion, and then the digestion of it’s remains when d’one unto d’one unto d’one . . . while unwilling and unable to reflect on what it was going to do beyond the doing and undoing of it, until d’one with it and nothing left.
That confused It, distracted It from it’s ceaseless hungers, as everywhere was everywhere and It was bringing it on, right on down to the first learned hunger to replace itself with better parts before It even learned to learn for itself, which was the least of It’s hungers, as was the case with all its.
And the easiest hunger to dispel.
Allowing SATURN’ixm to get on board and work to right the ship.
Was SATURN’ixm a good guy? A better guy?
Well it sure as hell had better table manners.
Table manners? OH, that’s funny, isn’t it?
Hillie had not been all that unique. Not at all unique. She hadn’t been cooked up as an idea of someone replacing themself as a whole new themself from a slew of parts available in Row 19 – the magical, mystery row found only at Branson’s. Step right this way, you spiritual shopper you. One only needed to consider the rules of reflexive pronouns to know that a new, another, themself would have been insanity upon insanity. Such grievousness would probably leave wordsmiths wallowing in the gutter looking for any sense of meaning of every item, thing, other, or else.
Nosh Steinsen had considered the rules of reflexive pronouns to belong in the hierarchy of knowledge right alongside his theory of ir-relativity. Even as the rules were running roughshod over them-there-darned-selves, breaking them to pieces slated for Row 19 shelves.
But themself four was MAD AS HELL, and wasn’t going to take it anymore.
The bottom line was it wasn’t only Hillie’s un-minded it floating the EARTH, as others were sucking in what could be sucked in, as small as it’s mouths were, and seemingly satiated with mud and muck and even imaginary gold, the by-product, naturally, of numbers, doing their imaginary multiplication thing. Small in size and number but growing.
Spreading the numbers.
From within and from without, splitting in two if need be, to fertilize more and more want.
As noted, there were others, other it’s being made.
But it was Hillie’s it that was reproducing, and getting good at it.
Good how? Arguably good, due to the nature of SATURN’ixm. It’s natural nature, not something of self-design or learned hunger. As was, SATURN’ixm, once SATURN’ixm evolved into Satur’nite, wasn’t much else than a body upgrade, a neuterized ‘ E4 it ‘ with one more way, that being the Satur’nite by-product.
And SATURN’ixm was not without it’s own hunger, it’s own need to reflect, ingest, digest. But still very differently, as it didn’t have to exhale. Uh, well, now we’re losing track of It and it. ‘It’ was maybe child of IT, parent of it. Parent to be of it.
At least parent once the conversion to Satur’nite took hold.
As for exhale, not on the to-do list, lucky them, as they didn’t have to leave a trace of themself. As such they fed on memory and imagination. They colonized otherwise spent and discarded memory. They didn’t clean up the past, a risky business, but they used it over, imagining it anew, staying in the past. In theory. They were completely disconnected from now and what goes that way, except that they had an urgency to maintain past, and memory, by maintaining a future.
Meaning they had to get a hand in play to waylay misplaced hunger, as in hunger all over the place, even if in plane sight. A hunger called the dark, that will consume any and all whatever once light steps aside.
Turning it all into quantum. The big joke. The more quantum made, the more you get used up and into it. Breaking up the biggg mass into masses, to be sucked into the biggg dinosaur. The last dinosaur. Ahead of schedule no less. But no more.
Biggger particle unto smaller particle. Part’ner to part’icipant to part and part’icle frozen in place and out of space, being processed for elimination.
Slowed to an utter standstill, still rushing about but where’less.
Looking the other way was the same picture.
As such Satur’nites came to be without realizing they were Satur’nites. Came to be, but not to take place. Not their thing, not at first, as taking place came with debt, with place taken away as payback. Nor did they come to be, to be used up and d’one away in looting Verse and Verses for the sake of a me, a wondrous me. An identity-free . . . free-me, with no one even about to recognize it.
Then again, everyone in the know knows the last dinosaur standing is the winner, the final feast for the death shrikes and pall bearers, and parasites, leeches and slugs eating and punishing the whole last big shebang into the ground.
Unless the dinosaur eats them first, along with all that can be eaten.
The rest would be history were there to be history.
And as long as there is, there will be.
That should be encouraging.
At least a bit.
Is it entertaining? I’m beginning to think maybe not.
Nonetheless, I can laugh. I am.
Satur’nites had no blood bond, not to themselves, nor to Hillie’s it. They had no blood, period.
The physical bond was none too strong either.
Hillie, on the other hand, had a strange and unique bond, along with a bird’s eye view, and commentary that carried. Heck, she liked It, It kept her going.
In need of quick dis-connection to save timed-space and timed-place else-wise, It had formulated and fashioned a delivery system along the lines of the mouth of a snake. Babies were born as if it were an act as natural and safe and necessary as eating. No assist needed, nor much danger or chance of mishap involved unless the newborn came out fighting it.
Which would describe K Strand, and GGG’s Louse getting her to reproduce in captivity would be a nightmare of nightmares. Getting her to eat was no picnic.
Somehow, that fighting generally didn’t happen. It were as if newborns realized and understood right at the start they had to team up to do battle. There was a here’s why about that.
It just seemed Satur’nites had to come, and come quick and easy to keep up with the predation of the at large and getting larger equally bloodless its, hungry for all at large where of place, and want of space.
With need of a bond nonetheless, and blood and physicality off the table, Satur’nites turned to trust, which called for a quick, near timeless reading eye when it came to reading the scenery and what moved about in it. Moving about, but not necessarily anywhere, pinned in place as it were.
The alien, unbound intelligence, alien as in alien to Hillie, and en’corporating every of . . . of every any – and let’s not forget en-corporating as a weapon of intelligence, inbred a command into the birth-state mind of Satur’nite infants – READ ME, as attached to every color, noise, flavor, odor and touch coming their way, along of course with every me and every grouping of every . . . any . . . all . . . and it – the whole of the state as become unknowable insane hunger . . . hunger most desperately needed to be known by any game preyed upon.
And yet, and worse, this wasn’t all happening over night, or only at night, as ingestion and digestion, and reflection, can be a pleasure – exhalation, not so much – and its liked their pleasure unto pleasuring their pleasure, as they wallowed in mud and muck, and money, the imaginary gold that so spent their time when that was the main way of spending it, slowing time for the process of elimination to see through dark nests to it’s targets all the more easily.
The targets so worthy and worth it, and needing and deserving of their multi-million, multi-billion dollar entertainments systems. Play on, children. No one’s ever going to have to pay your way.
Worms are hardly any sort of bad guy, but choosing one for a spirit guide? I don’t know, doesn’t seem to work for me. Seems regressive.
Does regressive need ‘splaining?
Satur’nites saw the regression of regressive as a worse dare than a rule about was and were. It, too, came in four, with the one about gaining godless, blind, black-hole bright, destructive might as you regressed, riding the d’ark, not noted . . .
Well, uh . . .
One, if you can’t eat or consume it, it’s just in the way, a monster of inconvenience – Maim, Crush, or somehow DESTROY it. Destroy all monsters.
One, if you can eat it, but it won’t hold still, KILL it. Then eat it, at your leisure, at your pleasure. Reverse that order if you so want.
One, if you can eat it, no muss no fuss no bother, EAT it.
Off the record, that middle one also applies to the modern tellings of Sher’lock Holmes.
If you can eat it, KILL it. Sound simple? Hardly, especially when you’re engulfed in dark, and it and its won’t hold still. As un-simple as it gets. Apart from the maybe pinning it down as if you were a shrike issue, it doesn’t tell you what it is or where it is, or how to get to it, or how to kill it, with what, when or where, etc. etc. etc. all leading to getting away with it, if just to get to a place where you can eat it in peace without competition to get the most pieces while you still find them fresh and tasty.
Come that time, was it too late to do anything about IT on Verse 444?
Most likely, apart from drowning oneself in entertainment first and faster.
So went the double double secret process of elimination as it dissolved away Verse 444.
At least it went down burning up and having fun. Mercy me.
Unless one were a Satur’nite. Or so they said.
To Satur’nites, once fully fleshed as reflective remember’ers, and fleshing took time and meant adaptation as unknown as the state, the free market was the cosmic realm where all exchange was made, be it by paper-promise, trade or favor.
Or the almighty voucher. The fiction of fictions, laid atop the stack of fyctions, the layers of as is. ‘as is / was as is,’ an iffy-fifty word count either way.
4/1, a Satur’nite would say about that count, and they didn’t like saying that.
All in all they just weren’t chatty.
The almighty voucher, the promise that the first come first serve would be served first, at least the first come first serve come carrying a voucher. Vouchers earned as needed and deserved. So said. A voucher of payment for anything, backed by none other than Hark Mulligan, Hillie’s . . . it’s . . . true success story. A real time place-taker.
Place-scaper. A place-scaper that could take place, if necessary.
It wasn’t Hark’s gift, backing vouchers, it was his job. He had done the deed that made him top dog, if still in a position from which he could be toppled, as toppers never stop. Nor did dementia, nor did it not target Satur’nites.
IT targets every other.
IT just does.
Satur’nite versus it, excluding It, was not good guy versus bad guy, it was guy versus guy. Or not-guy versus guy, nor were all ‘its’ guys, so there was room for play and distance to maintain what needed to be maintained.
Along with chaos and the process of elimination to combat, Hark waged combat towards a win.
Hark had demolished the stranglehold of the great vortex of timing. A nyfty tryck that addressed all why’s and wise and else-wise. Were it to be replaced by greater vortexes of timing, well that would be a new bitch to fry when the time came. Bitches to fry. In the parlance of E4’s, bitch did not have sexual orientation. It was aimed at anyone with the b’itch to lust over the power of hunger.
Thus were ‘its’ pushed away, pushed away from Quant City, to devour away any and everything else at bay, be it item, thing, other or else.
And it? Other its?
Sometimes its weren’t at bay.
Sometimes its turned back just to try to turn ‘It’ back to it’s first and only every-way, be that as OH. The minus one. The N’eg’ativity. Think boop, and . . .
Be it as game, gamed or gamer
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And house cleaning.
For anyone following along thru the first three zones so far, and I’m not sure that anyone is, zone five has crumbled and collapsed. It was just too dense, and came too soon, and there is older, more developed material just waiting for release.
Still, I foresee it’s return some day. Some sooner than later. AM PM QM BM certainly needs to be in play. Expect deja vu moments. Sorry.
In addition, the telling of Hermann Strumm meeting up with Benny Broken Reality has been shelved. It’s still in play, but no longer on paper. If you know what I’m talking about, consider yourself in the know.
Lastly, let’s call what has been happening so far part of the first book of The Lost Tribe of SATURN, and that will be the ongoing title, with some screwy numbering attached so as to easily identify what it is.
Additionally, the center of book one will be the pursuit of Jake Nder. That was always there, but I’ve just come to see it in focus. Not a bad guy by any means, but a super specialized reader and collector of dark, tasked with filling the D’ark, to take away to fertilize a new EARTH with potential to move should Verse 444 totally collapse, as it would were he to collect too much dark. It’s a maddened pursuit to Catch 1, Negate 1, as championed by Satur’nites, who should maybe mind their own business.
Maybe not all that maddened.
Conflict is a given, and you wouldn’t be happy without it.
And dammit, as I sit here thinking about the wisdom of saying all of this, I think I’m hungry.
Itâ€™s been done before, itâ€™s being done again. A tale of 'It'. A tale of souped-up real intelligence using smart artificial intelligence to soup itself up even more. There is no moral up ahead apart from reality closing in, which is not necessarily a worse-than-good thing, just yet another step on a path of development, told with soft, soupy science fiction without the hard, cold, timelessness of science.