Transcendence. Temporary as it was, though we won’t dwell on its transience for now. Let our hero bask in wonders self-invoked. Because right now Science (that virtuous and level-headed being!) had already untied her corset, and was beginning to loosen her shawl; disburdening herself, as it were, from the eons of constraint and rigidity that had been heaved upon her bosom. She let the garment drop from her shoulder, then, forgetting herself, let her shoulder drop along with it, and then the rest of her vessel disbanded and gave way to infinite and impossible forms.
‘Don’t worry, it’s ok. Don’t be ashamed!’ our hero reassured her, blushing as she was. ‘You’re even more beautiful than you were before’. And, dear reader, I would hasten to reaffirm his observations, for she seemed now to emit an expression (somewhere in that coagulation of matter incomprehensible to us) that was, shall we say, truer to herself. She was the constellations, pulsating energy, and everything stripped of explanation and reason.
We had christened her, named her, then moulded her into our form; but the corset was off, and so was the shawl, and in her nakedness she admitted the impossibility of our mould: she dispelled our notions of understanding hitherto, and in her bubbling mass of energies and stars and infinite and nothingness she became a crystallisation of her own antithesis: she transformed into God, and our hero felt for the first time since he were a child: faith—faith in something more!
Then, just then, another magical phenomenon which we call Gravity harked to our hero in the midst of it all, calling him down. So down he fell accordingly, as Gravity came closer. Then he saw that Gravity was not Gravity but his girlfriend, and she was telling him to wake up. She sounded in despair! He opened his eyes.
Seeing that our hero was alive and well her apprehension transpired to vexation. She grabbed whatever elixir it was that sat between his middle and forefinger, and stubbed it on the nearest thing: the dollhouse unused which; realising it wasn’t being used for nothing else, sought work in a new profession, collecting dust particles.
by Marcus Bechelli
(prompts: gravity, cigarette, dollhouse)