A story I wrote many years ago: Infinity Is Minty

MacMurphy publishing

Infinity is Minty

Wordcount 3,359

Mickey MacMurphy

10/3/2013

Infinity is Minty: (Original finished Nov 1^st/03)

            I am frustration embodied, restlessness given a body with which to fidget. Thus fidgeting, I did not notice when the young man approached from nowhere (well, I supposed it could’ve been somewhere but I didn’t notice, for I was far too busy fidgeting), and sat cross-legged on my living room floor. I became aware of him, for something made me aware. How odd. I was aware that he was waiting to say something, but couldn’t until I noticed him. Indeed, he could not even exist completely until I noticed him.

          Since noticing the existence of someone else might make my embodied restlessness slightly calmer, I thought to myself, as such it is then a relatively small price to pay (to notice him, that is) for such relief. So I looked at him, only slightly disturbed (a feeling that gradually, over a few seconds, faded), to see that he had no eyes, only eye shaped holes that were black but occasionally changed shades. As soon as he realized I’d decided to notice him, he opened his mouth and spoke with a voice that could’ve belonged to any man I knew, so average sounding it was.

“I need to create,” He said with a somewhat petulant tone. “The inspiration is here. The drive is here. But it seems to lack form. It seems to lack structure.” Here, he looked slightly distressed. “I have to do it before it fades.”

He stopped and sat there, looking up at me where I was sprawled across the couch, my restlessness forgotten in mid-fidget. I regarded him impassively, like the piece of broken pavement I had caught, only yesterday actually, watching me without concern or judgment. He seemed to be expecting some kind of answer, something he would find enlightening.

I did not feel so presumptuous as to try to lend him some shiny enlightenment. I, myself, was getting low, having only one, at most two, cans of it in my kitchen cupboard. That cupboard was in my kitchen last time I looked, but since I’ve only been borrowing the kitchen, the cupboard possibly saw fit to move somewhere more comfortable (like the empty spare bedroom). Oh, and I almost forgot: This particular brand of enlightenment has a pleasant and mild minty aftertaste. I found myself wondering if perhaps he had come to steal it when I wasn’t looking.

Still keeping my face impassive, I vowed to keep a close eye on this young man. I had my shiny enlightenment to protect, after-all. To throw him off the trail, in case he somehow suspected what I suspected, I opened my mouth (do you always speak with your mouth? How odd) and said:

“You need to create something completely pointless and as mysterious as possible. This will ensure that it will last. But it has to be completely devoid of inherent or exherent meaning.” I paused to make sure he was following and he nodded with a faint rattle. “This way, pundits, critics and people will keep coming back to feast their gaze on it. Each one, especially (I assume) the pundits, will spend much time coming up with oft (but not always) elaborate myths to explain this piece of creativity.”

He looked about to interrupt but I held up one hand and one foot for silence. When it was forthcoming, I continued.

“But, in particular you but also I, will chortle at them (should we charge admission?), because we both know, know it’s meaningless. That there’s no myth behind it, none whatsoever. This, in a way that’s impossible for anyone to understand, will ensure it immortality.” My long speech finally over, I drew a breath and smiled, hoping my mouth wouldn’t fall off, as it sometimes does. (Do you know how annoying it is to search around the floor for it, especially if it’s rolled underneath the couch? Worse yet, when your eyes gesture in solidarity and attempt to join their lost brethren amongst the wilds of the undercouch?).

He looked at the floor (did he suspect my mouth might fall off too?), then back up at me and his expression had become mournful. I wondered what he was so sad about and was about to ask when he spoke:

“I don’t think I can do that,” He said, sounding more mournful than he looked. “It seems so dishonest.”

“What does honesty have to do with it?” I asked, rather surprised. This wasn’t something I’d expected for a response.

He just looked at me, solemn, doleful, miserable. For a second, I wondered if he was going to cry, but instead a little storm cloud of cool black, and heated angry grey formed over his head. It thundered a tiny lightning bolt then began to pour torrential rain down upon his brow.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, annoyed now because now I would have to get up and find a towel or a mop to soak up the water. No longer restless, I did not want to get up and idly wondered if I could find, on such short notice, a bucket or pail big enough for him to sit in while the cloud pissed on him.

I exclaimed again, and glared at the cloud, and he looked up, incredulous, seeming to only notice it now. The water was streaming off his head in tiny rivers, plastering his dark brown hair to his head. It ran down his body, but, by the time it reached the vicinity of his waist, it seemed to… well for lack of a better word, evaporate.

I watched this with fascination and a certain degree of self-satisfied smugness because now I didn’t have to worry about a wet carpet. Not that I was concerned for the carpet’s sake; no, it was more that I knew, as one of the many corollaries of Murphy’s Law, that I would forget about the wet patch. Then I would step in it and promptly my wool socks would suck up all the moisture and wouldn’t be quite-so-comfy. This last thought, of wet squishy socks made me frown impetuously, although only slightly.

I suddenly realized I was frowning at my socks and suppressed the urge to reach down and ensure they were indeed dry and my feet hadn’t started lying to me in a convincing fashion. After all, I did have company, even if that company was after my shiny enlightenment that had such a fine minty aftertaste. So I looked at him to find him still contemplating the little storm cloud. So I waited for him to finish, but soon I could feel that sneaky restlessness trying to force itself on me in a subtle fashion.

“Think you could reach over and flip that switch?” I asked, pointing to the little grey (or was it black? I was too lazy to look) switch. “Then push that button with the little arrow about to collide with some innocent little lines.”

Out of the corner of my eye (I was currently fascinated by attempting to draw a picture with my eyes, connecting the various scuffs, tiny holes and whatnot on the wall next to the couch. It was a struggle because my eyes kept dropping the pen and pencil that each were alternatively equipped with), I saw him stretch out and accomplish what I had asked. This nearly made me smile, but I caught myself in time, remembering it was the wall which currently held my fascination and I didn’t want to rudely abandon it. So I focused my attention on it more resolutely and somehow knew it became pleased as a result.

Discordant music that seemed to have no melody and a strange rhythm suddenly burst forth from a black rectangular object. It took me a few minutes to realize that the separate tones were indeed music, indeed strung together in what’s usually considered a song (do you think this word fits the definition assigned to it?). As soon as I realized this, my brain took over the process of hearing, doing a far better job of translating the air vibrations that my ears had been so far failing at. Once the discordancy became music proper, I forgot the lesser amusement of the wall and its stories and lies, and smiled, tapping my fingers (or were they my toes?) to the beat.

I was jolted out of my little reverie of musical entrancement by the sound of someone nearby clearing their throat. This startled me, being so unexpected, so I frowned and sent my eyes searching for the source. They came floating back shortly and, once comfortably settled in their sockets, told me the young man was still seated cross-legged on my floor. I became rather alarmed, for my eyes informed me that he seemed to be gazing directly at my cans of enlightenment. Whether this was true or not (for there was not one, but two walls between my minty cans and his eyeless eyes), didn’t seem to matter, nor should it, for I needed to protect those cans above all else.

I struggled to fight down the rising panic for, as yet, this strange stranger (would he yet prove strangest?) had made no overt (nor even, I assumed, covert) moves to relieve me of my precious. You, who’ve never been lucky enough to possess your own cans of enlightenment (with such a pleasant minty aftertaste) wouldn’t understand. But those of you who have, and I can see by your assenting nods, understand my fears. The biggest question was, if he was after my enlightenment, did he know that there were booby traps protecting it? Boobytraps? I smiled at this suddenly remembered boon. Familiarity breeds not contempt, but forgetfulness. Hmmm.

Before I could deeply meditate on this, my eyes poked me and told me the stranger had noticed me grinning (it seemed my mouth had functioned under its own authority. I must plan an invasion immediately). He had a questioning look, so I told him rather conspiratorially that he, like everyone, had to watch out for Them. Would adding a wink be too melodramatic? He blinks, looks puzzled. I do a double-take, for now his eyeholes(?) are a different color, his left a deep green, like thick ocean; His right eye is like the crimson of blood that has been allowed to stain a white silk tablecloth (the Butler did it). I wondered if he’d be willing to teach me this nifty trick.

But before I could ask, he made a statement of his own.

“I know you know.” He said, rising and stretching, grinning at me in a way I found rather irritating.

“Know what?” I managed to stammer, scrambling to my feet and placing my body between him and my valued cans.

He blinked and his eyes were back to their original blank black. I risked a look over my shoulder, but couldn’t tell if the cupboard was in the kitchen. I then checked the nail in the wall where the leash hung that I used to take the cupboard on occasional walks around the neighborhood. It was gone. I figured the cupboard either had moved to the bedroom, or, not wanting to disturb me, had taken itself out for a jaunt.

“What I’m here for,” he answered, when I had returned my gaze. He grinned in a way I found disquieting and somewhat unpleasant. I caught my legs (on their own accord. Another invasion must be planned) trying to backpedal into the kitchen and only reluctantly were persuaded to stop.

“Oh? And what’s that?” I asked, as casually as possible.

“Your Lean Pockets. Preferably the Chicken Quesadilla variety.” He said, leaning toward me. “But in a pinch, even Pizza Pops will do.”

That was what he wanted?! I struggled to keep the amazement off my face. Something, however, didn’t quite seem right. At this point, he was leaning at such an acute angle that I wondered if he would fall over.

“But what about your need to create?”

He shrugged noncommittally and mumbled something I didn’t catch. I found myself beginning to get annoyed with this stranger. Here he was, in my house, demanding tasty tasty Lean Pockets, which I had actually run out of some time earlier. And he hadn’t even knocked!

“Well?” I prompted.

In response, he held up his right palm, in which a small yellow square, about the size of a saucer, floated in slow rotation. It shimmered and another square appeared, this one brilliant red, above and slightly offcenter. Nifty trick, if not spectacular. As I thought this, both shimmered and a blue one appeared.

“Not impressed,” I told him, growing weary of this silliness.

“Hm,” he said, with a look of annoyance. “Well, what about this?”

With that, the square vanished and he began to twitch and quiver. Then, right before my eyes, he began to grow and change shape until an ugly pink dragon filled most of my living room.

“Bravo!” I applauded. “That was much more spectacular. But did you really think I’d find a pink dragon impressive? Pink? Really?” I crossed my arms and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn.

With an audible snap, he reverted to the form I first witnessed, a look of condensed fury on his face (it’s more powerful, the condensed kind). My eyes poked me and clamored that perhaps we’d get some worthy entertainment out of this. I told them to quiet down and let me see unimpeded (for in their excitement, they were jostling around in a most annoying manner).

“Then I will just take what I want!” He declared, glaring at me in what I assumed was meant to intimidate quickly.

He started toward my kitchen and I moved to block his path. After-all, I was just borrowing the kitchen and I didn’t want to have to pay for any damages. At first, I thought he would just attempt to push by, but at the last second, he stopped. For a few seconds, we stood there, toe to toe, him glaring fiercely, me mildly amused.

“Move,” He demanded. How impolite and not at all politically correct.

“No.”

“Then I shall make you!”

With that, he shoved me. He was disturbingly strong, and I found myself sliding on my back across the kitchen floor. My head connected with the fridge, not overly hard painfully, but hard enough to make a thump even I found satisfying. Climbing to my feet, dusting myself off (I didn’t appear to have acquired any dust but since I hadn’t dusted for quite some time I thought it wise to check), my eyes informed me with restrained excitement, that he was stomping towards me, exaggeratedly no less. Highly exaggeratedly, they insisted.

That’s about when I felt a presence I hadn’t known in years. Could it be? Could it really be? I could tell by the way the stranger, apparently my newest enemy, stopped and stiffened, that he felt Her presence too. He suddenly froze, except for his eyes which, now again that red color, burned quite menacingly at me. I could see him struggling, trying to break himself loose of the quiet unpresuming immobility that had seized him. But we both knew it was a futile attempt.

WHO DARES DISTURB MY FRIEND, MY COMPANION, GUARDIAN OF THE MINTY ENLIGHTENMENT?

The force of this mental question nearly knocked me off my feet and my strange enemy seemed to suffer as well. I looked around, but couldn’t spot Her yet. This made me assume (and my eyes agreed with me on this one fullheartedly) that She was still some distance away, travelling from who knew how far.

OH, SORRY. Er, sorry. Sorry. Sometimes I forget. Shall I tone down My entrance too?

When I nodded, there between me and my tormentor appeared a puff of pale blue mist, accompanied by a very loud POOF! noise.  My ears trembled with delight, for they recognized this noise immediately. I couldn’t help it; my mouth, in extreme awe, fell off and rolled toward the stranger, only to be stopped by an exquisitely formed foot.

There, standing before me, was my old friend, who I hadn’t seen in such a long time. She bent and Her lower right arm retrieved my mouth, passing it to Her upper left arm. She glided gracefully the few feet to where I was standing and began to smile. My eyes, knowing just how dazzling Her smile could be, shut just in time. I felt Her take my hand in three of Her own and return my mouth to me.

By now, I figured, it should be safe to open my eyes, so they did. I could see my timing was near perfect; the stranger still had the awed, transfixed look that accompanied a smile from Her lips. I couldn’t help but be amused.

“My dear,” I said to Her with a slight bow, taking Her upper right hand and brushing it lightly with my lips. I nearly had to slap a hand to my mouth, lest it fall off again in divinely spun shock. “It’s been far too long. How have you been?”

Yes, it has. Been off, busy aiding a culture still in the prescientific age.

“Ah,” I said, with what I hoped was a sagely nod.

She grinned at me, this time remembering to tone it down for the lesser eyes that would receive it.

It’s quite rewarding work. Somewhat challenging due to the lesser levels of gullibility than one finds here on Earth.

My heart soared, for when She had left, She’d seemed so disillusioned. But the people of Planet Earth were expert at eliciting such feelings. I wanted to chat further, for we had plenty of catching up to do, but my eyes betrayed me. They flicked to the immobile stranger, hovering before him as if trying to taunt him. I bade them come back (some would discipline them for such, but they served me well, so I didn’t begrudge them a little freedom now and again), lest She notice.

Ah, the source of your problem.

She regarded my tormentor, a grim look on Her face, but then unexpectedly smiled.

Og MacOgham, will you never stop with your silly games?

Upon hearing his true name, my tormentor shimmered, then changed shape. Where before, he stood about six feet , short, dark hair with a very mediterranean complexion and a somewhat stocky build, now he was several inches shorter, a very pale Celtic look, long midnight blue hair halfway down his back, and a slender, almost elven build. His eyes were now faintly almond shaped and slanted, the blue of a summer sky, yet still no pupils or whites. He frowned at me, then grinned at Her with no trace of merriment at all.

“How did you know it was me, Great Kali?” He asked, apparently mobile only from the neck up.

Because only you would be so bold as to think such a ploy would get you Enlightenment.

“It nearly worked.”

Nearly. No. And nearly isn’t success.

“No, it isn’t.” He nodded. “Better luck next time.”

So he was indeed after my minty cans. I knew it. And to think, only recently someone had made a weak criticism of my suspicious nature. I would have to inform them, if I could remember who it was, that this nature had again served me well. I only hoped that this would annoy them, if only for my own amusement.

But now you must be punished.

Kali gestured and spoke a Word and Og MacOgham vanished, leaving little twinkling motes floating in the air. I grabbed an old pickle jar from the top of the fridge (kept there for just such a purpose), and began frantically filling the jar before the motes faded away. Kali laughed, a most enjoyable experience that made my ears glow with pleasure. She then vanished, without any spectacular exit, at which I was somewhat disappointed. Spectacular exits were usually much better than spectacular entrances, at least in my books. And Kali usually did a pretty good job at both.

Maybe next time, I heard faintly in my head, accompanied by Her twinkling laughter. Maybe next time.

End