‘The Not So Impossible’
Among certain books on the bookshelf in this store Peter had found himself walking into once again were fiction novels adjacent an ‘antithesis’ the author had called it, on how to read the Greek literariness. This authors name was Germain Augustine a female Renaissance writer from France. These books where next to three large ethics books and a larger dictionary and commentary on the Greek alphabet. Inside the ethics and antithesis behemoth of books (in size and scope, respectively that is) was sandwiched a petite lightweight leather booklet on Plato.
The book was called “The Second Play To the Caves: poems on life from a modern day escapee’. Peter had cracked a small part of his lips as if the Greeks had done this on purpose, named their philosopher Plato for the sake of the modern term they used for children’s toys in the twenty first century– or was it the former that came first. He wasn’t sure what the book was about and It caught his eye, so he lifted his hand to the shelf and grabbed it from among the books and novels and while the pages were thick yet white as snow, and yielded no trace of bruises the spine was as straight as a brand new car’s backrest, that would have been purchased off a television ‘as seen on TV’ commercial days before putting it in the car, and the ink was printed in a brown italic in which reminded him of the similarities of Biblical books he read as a youth. That is to say, the spine wasn’t straight. Someone had gotten themselves into this, there were pages that seemed to be read already. A maiden voyage this wasn’t going to be he thought, but a purchase maybe to add to a virgin shelf he had ready at his dwelling.
Laughs rippled from outside the store, there was a noise where the bells above the door had made way to the opening of it and in walked this stern looking women in a brown dress, with brown skin.
“Hello Madam“, said a man with a half roughly shaved beard sitting behind a register at the cash.
“Oi, John. Been some time but not too much I hope! That beginning setting you explained in the book Never Wake by that author is too creative for me to grasp” she said in a stern non nonchalant way.
The bookstore was often busy at night in this part of the city, and at the present of his journey into the store Peter found a peace settling in faster than normal thanks to the atmosphere created by John’s musical tastes. The speakers set up on the ladder above the cash played some foreign – yet reminscent of good times he had when alone in his car on his way to plays with his wife – trance music. His car had been parked outside and had taken about an hour to get him into the city as he left a silence in the air so Peter could not get distracted and continue his pursuit of finding what he thought would be a curious display of this book on Plato’s philosophies work.
Peter not finding this to his surprise found a bookmark inside the paperback he had in his hands and interupting the lady on her quite way into the store pipped up from the isle he was in the small house bookstore had an echo where it wouldn’t require a thundering voice to reach the ears of the captain of this small ship of a bookstore asked,
As if he was a militant Queen guard with one of those tall black hats.
“Yes Petra my friend. This lady is a customer, I hope this isn’t… -” he was about to finish.
“No. This isn’t a game of chess I’m asking about. There’s a bookmark in this book, it says ‘To the One who Conquers’ ” he replied quizzitively.
This caught John’s attention.
It turned out that the bookmark was John’s as he had usually perused the pages of his own shelves looking at encompassing literature on the gods and children and men and Gods and children of men and in his spare time. The bookmark was a reference to someone who would one day conquer for humanity in the name of God. A phrase pulled out of the latter pages of the Bible he read, had, yet didn’t sell. John’s store was a bookshelf of everything but the actual original mansucripts and apparently divinely inspired books that inspired the pages that ended up in the bookstore. From phiolsophical essays on how the ancients made medicine or a hardcover portion of poems by a native author of a distant country. Anything you would usually not find in the window or outisde, was on display in the isles if you could find them. Though not quite a literal library, but composing of books of certain taste and wisdom. John himself was a man who’s father was a Rabbi and didn’t talk much about faith. The two of his parents told him to pursue his dreams his entire life so when he was awoken to the nature of the reality of literature books and the intellect they carry on in our world thanks to their nature of what he called ‘ice burgs’ he purchased his neighbours parents house and took much of his time collecting his families and their books (as well as purchasing in bulk) his way into the city as a young author of authors. An aristocratic looking yet red blooded fellow from a city no one heard of.
Cliches of nature, he didn’t withhold from introducing Peter to Beguzza and Banita.
John was in his fifties now, and his parents were on their way out to lunch for eternity soon. They stopped by once in a while, for reminiscing of chess games at his youth, and to remind him to keep his face shaved in case his children ever show up into the store. The store’s name was something he had titled ‘Pages’ and the sign that hung amongst a panel of other stores in the alleys of the cities gates of commerce was not obvious to onlookers from the way it’s courier typeface presented itself, though it was something mysetrious and set among the cities innards as rememberance of the people whome came there.
This was on purpose, he made enough money from selling much of his books at the beginning of the shops initial opening sometime after the third world war and things had settled for good now. There was no sign of the peace ending in his or his childrens lifetime. He was happy, not clean shaven ever, and his demeaor or a smile only gave way to the shadows under his brown eyes. His kids on the other hand, often [did] drop by with their dates to brag about their father’s talent in how he had left a story in their heart. Their names were something he had pulled from a lottery of cracker jack boxes almost, nothing you would guess the way they acted on the inside or out; quite enigmatic- that is, their personalities. Their names inspirations for the sake of sanity or better yet for a hint at what he had told Peter, John said once for humanities sake will not be explained. Who knows where he was inspired from.
“Well unless that’s a purchase, just leave it there.” he replied.
The music shifted once more on the speakers from foreign progressive house group bumped into the next track on the playlist by a band called Grave Wape, a modern sythetic sound where the woman sang as if she was in the shower with a mohawk listening but isnging [over] punk music mixed with classical.
“The bookmark. Does it have something to do with the Book of Revelation’s?” he asked.
“I see. Well then I will see you for a game of chess.” said Peter.
“This bookmark is what I’m playing for though, and Dumah.” he added.
“It’s just bad though, I’d be interested in you could finally explain to me the damage it can do to one’s fate if you don’t understand the native languages your dealing with. I love the greek syntax of the other studies I’ve done thanks to your store. But I..wait – what the fuck is this…” he stopped his conversation before it could get started. On the back of the bookmark, he had been examining in his talk, was his wife’s name but not in the sense it was her that wrote it. It read: DONATE TO THE DUMAH FOUNDATION.
This caught the woman with brown skin’s attention, she had recognized the name to be something from the east. A land in a desert nation where the grass was vacant and made room for trails of Mercedes that sometimes toured their ways on their journey to look for what Edenic scenery they might find.
“I know that name. A friend I had grown up with had that name. You sound elated.” she started.
“She died of cancer.” replied Pete.
Peter closed the book and took the bookmark and headed out the door on his way to the car. The smell of the pages turned in his life once more for a brief turn as he wondered who was watching over his life, Dumah might be for all he thought.
He took off through the narrow alleys and stairs out of the bars and eateries that surrounded the core of the business section Pages was located in, the lady had smiled with a sparkle in her eye on his way out but that didn’t stop him from wondering where she might be. It alarmed him to think of Asimov at this moment.
As he was chasing the sidewalk to his car, Dumah – his deceased lover – had once replied to one of Peter’s jokes about how machines take over the world eventually into a slew of growing more machines for a dominate race of collectors. It hastened his steps imprint on what he was leaving behind in mystique,as all she ever said, was jokingly that he was his robotic slave already.
Damn her. He thought, the music always hit him on the way to the car he parked. The music of his cell phone. The part of the world he lived in had a notion and claim to fame with the war ending, and the ringer on all their technology was ancient now, but to the youthful warriors of the third war that started in Australia, it was always reminding him of his wedding. He walked with a stroll as if it wasn’t her that was the robotic symbiant at his pleasure disposal. But that he never got to see the judgement that landed on humanity where they escaped the flood of death in whatever way she spoke of sometimes.
This metaphor of a pun intended wasn’t there, but the mist of what she has instilled in him was gathering speed as the Mirelands sign hung over his head, he passed under some other signs and windows and alleys to a staircase. The very idea of him being encased in a rock or island’s eternal dwelling and having her come visit him and explain to him all the travels she had done while he was to think up what subjectivity begun in his journey as an artificial being or a slave or whatever she thought of him. Deep down it was her death that left him complete with what she knew him as alive, though to be someone who is one with a woman and pass the Turing test at the age of her demise left him with thoughts of wonder at her work on him. Like being named after something as a desert and being – Dumah – from Egypt, there was terror building in him right now.
He stopped running.
As if he was preparing to hear something for the rest of eternity, a song by Bach remixed to robots, as humans came to visit the ruins of war and talk and explain to the robotic warriors who failed humanity. It was a deep but deadly kiss of the mind this page he was on, the ring tone and the bookmark. It was [him] who was that robot tied to the vines of the rain forest. Never being able to see the water or even understand what a human feels when someone dies – being not human that is.
Nature was where she was buried, among a huge set of hills and houses that surrounded it but even the houses in the village of this burial site gave way to shrubs and vinery and trees interlaced within and around the setting of the town. Something you could imagine being scene as the most peaceful place of burial. T
“Hello?” he said on his phone.
“Your at least human enough to walk out of her but not finish a game of chess are you?” said John.
“What is it. She sparked something in there. I’m just going for a walk. Shes gone to the world of rest or wherever we go when we our lungs fail us. What do you expect me to do?” he said.
John stopped him in his tracks when he mentioned the name of the lady, and provided hope in Peter, so he turned back and headed through a maze of stairs and cement and mortar to Pages.
When he walked in the music was off and the silence was eerie when he had not spotted the napkin with tears on it, but noticed the lady waiting on him had modern day mascara running down under her eyes. It was not foreign for him to think of this might be the best time to dance with her and sing praises about the Greeks and take her out to dinner. He needed to know something instead. He wanted to know if this Dumah was the same. His mind laughed at the situation in where he might go to get her number and find if she too was a friend or just someone trying to pick him up for a date.
“She died. How did you know your Dumah,” he asked, stressing ‘your’.
“She was a childhood friend from music school. We got into fights over who we would marry when we were young. Prince charming or Mr. Right. She was from Egypt and never remained in contact with me” she finished.
Her name turned out to be Onna.
“She married Mr. Right.” said Peter jokingly.
“His first name just so happens to be Always”, quipped John from behind the cash. He was going with the case of chess held in hands to place it in front of the two. “And he has three cats. One of them drowned shortly after the first two did, in a river in this city Quebec.”
“Yes.” Peter laughed almost in the form of a question.
“Un, deux, trios, cat’s sank. Said Mr. Right”
She turned and Onn looked behind her, “Oh okay. I’ll be on my way then. We should catch up on her over wine one day” and out the doors of Pages she went. It was a sour twist in her mind, the phrase made her giggle on the inside to think he missed the chance. It was mysterious enough to get shocked by running into someone who was about to help you find a friend of old. But no, Onna couldn’t remember where it would go anymore, and she abruptly left with a smile on her face.
Peter and John played a long game of chess. Two rounds it turned into, and the machine timer on the game ended the same time the music came back on. It was all John’s plan to let him forget of what he was doing with a bookmark. He didn’t want to upset the natural setting of his stores customers. And one on her way out, could be one on her way back in. He was hoping the place Peter found himself in was a place of rest when he returned home. The three cats he had in his upstairs apartment above the dwelling below where he ate and slept, was covered in water again he discovered.The city lit up and dimmed out like an electric strobe light in the rear view mirror of his car. The car was his parents favorite colour, but belonged to him from the work he was doing at a school for philanthropy. He wasn’t sure if he’d make it home. The highway he was on was still littered from riots over the taxing put in place or better said, not put in place over the rebuilding of the city’s outer forestry section that was taking over room to expand the city cores second outer limits of hybrid housing.
He was curious no longer about what would come of the job he had responsibilities to the coming weeks working in the schooling system, and headed inside for a glass. He poured water by the time he got to the chance to decide if it was a time to get cracking out the wine and fruits. It would be hilarious he mentioned in the backs of his being if the strength he had when Dumah existed were still lingering in the air. Cancer was nothing of the sort of choice you get to choose what it tastes like. But being a woman and having it reach her breasts, it was subjective to him the least. In his defense, visiting her often and keep her in the words of his mind and hearts work as he often did with mentioning to John what she instilled in him, or the en carving on her burial place would keep her busy doing whatever you do on the other side of the mirror of life.
To him it was just an external dark cloud of judgment by a king of kings or a voice and thought of sound that visited often the space and surroundings of the globe to cause something or nothing to happen. But he held onto her. Becuase the bitter taste of loosing her kept the pages turning. His demeanor wasn’t restless, he was busy trying to think on the book he left at the store. It was obvious he’d go to a place similar. A place where there is no knowledge akin to that of pages of holy books of life. To songs where the tune was pleasant and when the rain fell, the pages and notes of such these mentioned laugh or cry on you in a sense of the light of isles of where he had grown custom to. A place where he didn’t call home until he left. ‘Are we coming or going’ said John. In an echo that clicked with the choice of time and age for a brief moment of looking onto the house. He went through some doors to get to the upstairs and grabbed what was left of the sheets of comforters. Settled in to the darkness of the night as it set in, and when the sun was completely gone he drifted and collapsed into a fury of terror as the sound of a bus crashing hit him so profoundly he wanted all wise ways of falling out of the dream he had fallen into which in turn turned into a dark hole of tunnels of nightmarish memories. The bus crashed and he went spinning into a mist of when the smell of the dress she wore was youthful. It was on his mind, but in truth he knew it was what she had made mention of the infamous Earth Alpha project they had wanted to see unfold.
What is Earth Alpha he thought. She made her way into the dream. It was a wild one. He woke the next train wreck of random access memories into the light of the house, which he had yet to turn off when he drifted off to sleep. And the sound of dogs barking at the moon made mention he wasn’t rested enough.
Grabbing the comforter. He decided to crash himself into a fury of good time sounding music of vinyl and put his faith into something scriptural. It was non-fiction that this symbiant like nature of his kept his clock working. But the clock would always die at the end of the night and the forest would come into play. Darkness and dreams and memories of the last page. Where was this going.
This time the dogs were barking because they were on their stroll from hedge to road to city, or to city to road to hedge to house, and it was morning. The dream he had was nothing but a climax of what is being displayed beyond the veil. He [was] doomed. She was gone. What was left. He thought. Was nights to surrender to the death that comes to all but one. The creator he thought. He didn’t realize this night had ended with a morning of a dream that happened to be something nowhere in the book that lay next to his right foot. The King James Bible. Something that made it’s way throughout the centuries into an odd paradigm of thought among the governments. And the time he had heard of what was to come, he placed great strength in resting upon this man who was to come and satisfy the needs of a world left in chaos.
Having the war that had recently end, it was of no surprise if the world he lived in had anything to do with a different interpretation of this figuratively speaking relevant book in John’s opinion to Peter, but the Christ was something he didn’t understand. What he did though, was”