This is the beginning of a story I'm in the process of writing. If people like it, I'll share more, and work more vigorously at finishing it. If not, that's OK too. :)
In the beginning, there was only the Word, and its echoes were all there were. Its existence was enough, and then the first thing occured - entropy was discovered. The Word lost some of Its coherence, and dissonance was formed from the previous harmonies. Portions of the Word even eventually went silent, an until-then unheard of event.
Pardon the pun, I couldn't resist.
How do I know all this? Well, I've heard the Word. Blew my mind, quite literally. All you're getting out of me is the story, so you know enough to not go digging into dark, hidden corners with curiosity and brilliant, open minds.
Unless that's your thing - I won't throw the first stone.
So, back a ways, I was a normal human being, much like yourself. Gender doesn't matter any more, nor do features - picture me as you will. I was more dogged than bright, lots more curious than cautious. My day was spent using the gifts I had been given and the skills I'd grown from them. No spouse, no kids, just a cat and a home payment and a bad addiction to paychecks.
Being the curious kind, I spent time reading weirdness, the stranger the better. Several versions of the Necronomicon, none of them even close to the original concept but entertaining in their own way. Holy and profane works from around the world and back through time. Entertaining diversions from the psychadelic Wilson, to the irrepressible Pyncheon and the didactic Derrida.
Each book, each story was intriguing but all were sent on to various resting places, never worth a re-read.
I also took occasional trips to the strange and wonderous portions of the world. The pyramids of Egypt are massive, incredible feats of man's ego made solid, but the dust was worse than the heat. Chichen Itza and its cool, blue cenote. The bugs swarming thick enough to blur vision in the swampy regions of the deep Appalachians. Scrambling around Devil's Tower in Wyoming in all the scree and boulders.
All were fascinating and intriguing and I never felt the need to go back to any of them.
Instead I found myself wandering the wood and dirt roads in the back edges of my neck of the woods. Yes, we had hot water and internet and two-day delivery, but we also had woods and hills and streams. It seemed like there were more and more of the former over the years, and less and less of the latter. The price of progress, or so they told me.
One area I did keep coming to was a small stream, little more than a jumped-up creek, about two hundred yards from my home of the time. It was usually a quiet little neighbor, gently tickling the stones in its bed as it slid its way on. It passed under the two-lane road in an oversized culvert, as occasionally it would rage and change its bedding. I helped cut up whole trees lodged on the upstream side of the culvert a couple times. But, like I said, it usually was just a quiet thing.
I liked to check the bed after its rage was spent, enjoying finding new stones, or rather old stones placed in new places. The occasional animal bone or water-gnawed stick were also to be found, along with the signs of the times - wrappers and cans and crap. As I enjoyed the former, I'd pick up the latter. Why? Why not. Didn't have a real need to, but I didn't have a reason not to - sure, there'd be more eventually, but that's ok.
Can't stop time, can we?
