litranaut

Open mic night at the Cafe was an odd affair. It was the only time it was closed to the outsides.

Where it became a single nolocation.

Characters, concepts, and creatures vied for space to try and extend their lives.

Tonight, though, there was one speaker.

It stood there, impeccably dressed in a smoking jacket. It spoke, its voice unctuous, grating.

“Live, from the Side Track Cafe. It’s me.”

“I’m not just a bad idea – I’m The Bad Idea.

“You know what interests me? The Bleeding.

We know only conversation gets over, snippets of things in passing. Information. Ideas.

And at random.

Why.”

It didn’t question. It demanded.

“Why only at random? Why not designed? Why don’t we put ideas into their heads?”

Demanded this should happen.

The Bad Idea walked the stage. Paused for a drink. Flashed what passed for a smile with a face full of tentacles. It wasn’t friendly.

It paced back and forth across the stage, talking into the mic with one hand, gesticulating with the other.

“I mean…it’s not like it hasn’t happened before, right? Conjugations, ouija boards, hauntings.”

It stopped and looked directly at the audience.

“Religion.”

It let that one sink in before it started pacing again.

“Why don’t we direct it, that’s all I’m saying.

“And we also know that, as ideas pass, the walls get weaker in certain spots. You know this, right? If you spread an idea, which spawns an idea, it’s easier to get ideas across at that point? Or if you store a bunch of ideas together, that weakens the walls? You don’t know this? I thought this was common knowledge.

“Ok, well, there’s that. Maybe. I mean – we can’t prove it, it’s what we think.”

It stopped for a beat.

“AAAANNNNNYYY way.”

Another short pause for laughter… that didn’t come.

The pause was really short.

“There’s that. Places where we could put ideas across, where it’d be easier.”

It took another drink and, as if the thought had just occurred, turned to the audience and said, “Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute.”

It walked up to it’s poster. “It’s The Bad Idea.”

He walked into the audience. “What about you, sir?”

“Hatred.”

The Bad Idea nodded. “And you?”

“Fear”

“We…we are all ideas. If they can pass ideas through, abstract concepts, or if they can summon us as Demons – why shouldn’t we go?”

It looked out over the stunned audience.

Then the tentacle smile. “I want to thank you tonight. You’ve been a lovely audience.”

He took a quick bow, the lights went out.

And then that voice. Unctuous, with an edge.

The tone goading.

“No. Really. Why shouldn’t we.”

***

Today’s photo is the lovely Tom Baker as H.P. Lovebox

Ramona trudged through the snow. It was knee deep and hard going. She heard voice off into the distance and turned to look.

There was an infinity of barns, overlaid in the same space – some modern, some ancient. One had a nativity scene in it – actually, a few of them did. One housed a confused set of deer. As she looked, a thought crossed her mind – One barn is the same as all the others. Holding onto what a Barn means will lead to a spiritual salvation.

“What a pile of crap. Why would a stable in Bethlehem be anything like a Nordic Reindeer stable? In fact, Why would Santa even need a stable. He doesn’t exist. God – that’s not a good idea – that’s the fears of an old man desperately trying to cling to the past. And that idea is awful.”

She carried on walking.

“This has to be a dream.” She announced. Her voice carrying across the sound muffled snow.

“What gave it away?”

Ramona span round to see young man gathering wood.

“Was it the infinity of sheds?”

“No – more the fact I’m still in my nightdress, and if this was real I’d be freezing my tits off.”

The man carefully placed his logs on the ground, licked his finger and held it up. “No, not with this wind. It’s not out of Austria.” He carefully gathered his logs and walked away a little. “Will you walk with me Ramona?”

“I hate that you all know my name.”

“I am Hassan. Does that help?”

Ramona thought for a moment. “No. I don’t know any Hassan’s. How can I dream about someone I don’t know? Are you someone?”

Hassan smiled. “I am, yes. But no one you yet know.”

“Then-”

Hassan shook his head. “It is too confusing now. Let us just say that where you are is a dream. But it is not a dream.” Ramona fell back into the snow. “What are you doing?”

“She looked up at him, flapping her arms and legs. “Making a snow angel. I never do them at home, because it’s too cold and wet. But I can do it here and not worry about it.” She stood up and admired her work. “There.”

They walked on for a while, Ramona helping to collect the logs.

“What are you doing, Hassan.”

“In some places,” he smiled. “Ideas do grow on trees. I’m collecting the wood for those trees.”

Hassan counted up the wood. “We have enough. Let’s build.”

Over the course of the next hour, the pair had build a small copse of trees. Ramona was exhausted.

“I’m going to need a nap after working all night. So,” she nodded at the copse. “Idea Trees, eh?”

“And this one is yours.” He pointed at one of the furthest trees, and Ramona saw a book growing on it.

Before she could ask the obvious question, Hassan was off, into the forrest and up the tree. He settled himself on a branch and started to read the book growing there.

“Ramona. You will forget about me. About all of this. You will forget me, Ramona.”

The wind picked up, blowing gusts of snow between them, stealing Hassan’s words.

“But you will come back to us. You are the House of Lights, Ramona.”

The snow stuck to Hassan’s face, pulling him, freezing him to the tree.

“You will get lost, Ramona. But that’s ok.”

The blizzard blew stronger, and soon all Ramona could see was white.

***

She must have been cold, she was shaking.

No.

She was being shaken.

“What time do you call this, young lady?”

“Mum? What…what time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

“Wow. I must have been tired.”

Ramona rubbed her eyes, the summer sun steamed into her bedroom.

“Are you ok, Mona? You look confused.”

“What? No… it’s. Yeah. I’ve just woken up. I’ll be up.”

Ramona sat for a while. There was something. It was just at the tip of her…

She shook her head. “Or just a dream. Maybe I am full of shit.”

Ramona grabbed a towel and headed to the shower.

***

Today’s photo was provided by an old mate, Chris Wild

The weather forecast has said it was going to be minus double-digits without the wind chill.

The wind was blowing straight in from Freizinyourbolloxov, a small town city near Siberia. This shouldn’t be confused with Freesinyurteetzof which, as every schoolchild knows, is in Austria.

With the wind, that minus double digit felt at least twice as cold.

Noel Coward once noted that the midday sun was reserved for mad dogs and Englishmen.

Shane Culver similarly observed, “Only an asshole would go out in weather like this.” Which was all he could think about as he trudged behind his employer, Brandon, “The Asshole” Rodgers – photographer.

Brandon was holding forth.

“It’s about the unity of things. One thing is linked to similar things of the same kind.”

“And…this is why we’re on here in this freezing cold?”

“Yes! Because these photographs will touch people at a deeper place. They will feel the connection between these images and the other images. But it’s more than that. It’s about the actual image. And the meaning behind that.”

Shane wasn’t going to encourage Brandon and just trudged on in silence, hoping that he’d shut up.

Brandon, however, wasn’t running on Shane’s hopes.

“It’s about sheds. Barns. Stables. Farmyard buildings in general. That’s where all our hopes and prayers live – don’t you see?”

“Ah…not really, Brandon. Where are you going with this? And, why today?”

“Because life does not wait for those who will not live it. We must strike today, while the iron is hot!”

“At least something is,”  mumbled Shane. And then, louder, “So – why sheds, then?”

“It’s where everything happened! The Nativity: Christ, in the shed, at Christmas – the birth of the Son of God!”

“Yeah – so.. One thing, then.”

“Father Christmas has Reindeer! They must sleep somewhere. And where?”

“I’m guessing a stable.”

Brandon spun round, almost lost his balance, righted himself and pointed. “RIGHT! See! It’s all Stables! And now we have cars in garages” – he said it as if the word was dirty in his mouth – “our lives have lost meaning! By taking photos of stables. Of Shed and Barns, WE can give people back that meaning.”

The walked on in silence for a while, and then Brandon stopped, suddenly.

“HERE! My Masterpiece awaits.”

Shane looked up. It wasn’t all that. And he found that he wasn’t witness to a great spiritual reawakening.

The pair of them set up Brandon’s equipment and he started snapping. Different angles. Different lighting.

“So…are you saying that Farmers are the new Saviours of Mankind?”

Even through all of the layers around Brandon’s face, Shane knew he looked aghast. “No blaspheming on the shoot, Shane.”

Three hours later, after the Nativity photos, but before the reindeer could arrive, the cold proved too much, and it was only Shane’s good reception that called in the rescue team.

This is how ideas grow.

If you put them in the minds of fools.

***

Amy O’Connor provided today’s photo. Read about her here

“You are so full of shit, Mona.”

Ramona had decided to tell her brother about her dream. It, perhaps, wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had.

“Oh, just fuck off.”

They were sitting in an old bus walking distance from their home. It had been used for conversations for years.

“Well – where do you want me to start?” He counted off statements on his fingers. “It was a dream. No, I don’t think you’re some super-powered time-traveller sending messages back for you to hear, now. You? With pink hair? Oh, and did I mention? It was a dream.”

It would be the last time it would be used that way. The glowered at each other.

“Why is it so hard for you to be nice? I don’t know what it’s meant to mean! That’s why I talked to you about it.”

“It’s meant to mean that. You. Were. Dreaming.”

There was more glowering.

“Well – suppose it was a lucid dream?”

Steven thought about that. It was a possibility except…

“You weren’t in control.”

“What?”

“You said yourself this ‘other Ramona,’” he made air quotes. Ramona didn’t think she could hate him more at this point. “She lead the conversation. She was telling you things.”

“But things I asked about!” Ramona protested.

“Things you think you asked about. It was a dream, Mona. How can you be sure about anything?”

Ramona sighed. “Ok. Maybe. Maybe I was just dreaming. But what about that stuff I know nothing about? What about the Tup..the tul.. The spirit things.”

Steven growled. “They’re called Tulpas! And you could have learned about them anywhere.”

“How? We didn’t know what they were properly called until you looked them up.” She nodded at his phone.

Steven’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

He looked confused and Ramona, sensing a small victory, pressed him. “Hmm. Tell me that. How did I know that?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“But if the option is you remembered it from somewhere, or you overheard someone talk about it, of you looked it up, and forgot it OR you told yourself about it from the future, you know where I’m going to be looking.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe me?”

“Oh – I believe you. I believe you had a dream, that was weird. And that’s it.”

Ramona was crestfallen. She had no idea who to talk to about her dream now. Or if she even wanted to talk to someone about it. Maybe it was just a dream.

“Just…” There was resignation in Ramona’s voice. “Just get lost, Steven. Leave me alone.”

Steven got up. “Sorry, sis. It’s just-”

“Just go.”

Ramona sat, not even thinking, for a long time.

This, amongst other ways, is how ideas die.

In silence.

***

Today’s photo was supplied by Lisa

“Tulpa.” The woman’s voice was calm. Impassive.

“A magically produced illusion. Or creation. An embodiment of an idea created through meditation.”

The speaker was an attractive woman with full lips, and pink hair. And translucent. It was obvious that she was a projection. Though were she was being projected from was less obvious.

The listener was younger, and more confused. “Uh…what?”

The speaker turned. “Tulpa” She repeated. ““A magically produced illusion. Or creation. An embodiment-”

“Nono. I heard you. That was a more general what.”

The projection appeared to think. “I see. What general what would you like answered?”

Ramona thought. She appeared to be in a library – but it was massive. She had no idea how she got there, where there was, or even why she was there.

“Ok – let’s start with where the hell am I.”

The projection turned her head and followed Ramona as she around the room.

“This is the Ancient Library of Alexandria. This is the most significant libr-”

“Sorry? The Ancient Library of Alexandria.”

“Yes.” The voice still impassive. Still calm.

“How? How did I get here?”

“Physically, you are not here, Ramona.”

Ramona stared. The projection continued. “Your physical presence is currently located at 124 Evalstone Grove.”

“That’s where I live.”

“And it is why you are there..”

“So how am I here?”

“Here is an imprecise term. Here is a construct, built for this purpose. Initially.”

“Am I dreaming?”

The projection moved, slipped a book from a shelf and opened in. Ramona moved so she could look too. Inside was a stream of data. “You are currently in REM sleep, yes.”

Ramona sat down.

“So this is just a dream.”

“No. Not just a dream. You are here for a reason.”

“A reason?”

“A reason that would go faster if you stopped repeating my comments. You are here because you have to learn about Tulpas.”

“That’s the thing you were talking about at the start.”

“Yes. A magically produced illusion. Or creation. An embodiment of an idea created through meditation.”

“Yeah. That’s the thing. I need to know about them. Hmm.. Ok. But there’s one thing I want to know before we get started.”

“Yes, Ramona?”

“This is my dream, so it’s obvious that you’ll know my name – but why do you look like that?”

“Well, Ramona. This isn’t your dream. I know your name because you told me your name. And I look like this because this is how you looked when you created me.”

The projection looked down at the book. The readings were spiking.

“Ramona. This news is shocking you. You are dropping out of REM sleep. You will not return here tonight.”

“I created you? How?”

““Tulpa.” The woman’s voice was calm. Impassive.

“A magically produced illusion. Or creation. An embodiment of an idea created through-”

***

Ramona sat bolt upright, with a massive gasp.

“Meditation?”

***

Todays photo was supplied by Kostika