“What is coming is the Terrible Narration, the final story in the mise en abysme. The last chapter is the one in the middle, the final moment that returns not to the beginning but to the center.
“Worms and moles do not need eyes, yet here they are, alongside a God with nothing to touch and no perfect future. One grown fat and strong on all your commitment and willing sacrifice, but still demanding more and more.
“And yet, in the darkness, the eyes are blinking and the reflections off their tears are being translated into a story called ‘Placed into Abyss’, where you carry on in divine repetition.
“They are twinkling in the earth like shards of mica. They are flickering like stars. Somewhere, sometime, the story of your success, which is your failure, which is the place in the abyss, is being written and rewritten.
“You need only to connect it.”
Burrowing through the layers of blankets like a night crawler escaping from flooded tunnels, Heira wakes, gasping in the night air. Beside her, the Overseer sleeps, sheets encasing his twitching legs like a tail. The orange light of the streetlamp reticulates them both through the blinds’ slatted shadows.
Heira knows, then, the truth of the endless passage and the hole at the center of the picture-in-a-picture. It isn’t only that it is a grave worm’s tunnel, opening up into the Great Voice’s living catacomb. It is also a birth canal, a great heaving channel with the Great Voice within, preparing to emerge, slurping out like a giant tongue and vomiting its vanguard of dead men’s eyes back into the world.
Eyes that glisten like eggs, flapping on heavy-lidded wings.
The Corrective Executions and their broadcasts, of course, continue. The Overseer takes to the radio to warn that insubordination and curfew violations have been declared capital crimes. Religious and civil leaders are subject to particular scrutiny and dealt with quickly by the Commitment.
Protestors swarm the street en masse, eyes covered by opaque visors or heavy black blindfolds that mimic the bars that Heira places over the eyes of the continued Corrective Executions victims. These dissidents are themselves executed on the sidewalks and in the alleys by impromptu groups of police and vigilantes, their bodies left for the municipal services or the rats to sort out.
Within the hour of any mass shooting, however, footage appears on the pirate waves. Even when officers swear that protestors wore the visors, even where the remnants of the corpses’ faces are still held together only by black bands, the footage shows their eyes.
They flicker, then are pinched like candle wicks.
“If there is a window to the soul,” the Overseer asks Heira as they lie in bed, still damp from their exertion, “where do you think it is?” He kisses her closed eyes, her lips, all the while his hands roaming down across her naked belly, into her lap.
He doesn’t taste like murder, she thinks. Does even he understand what he’s doing?
Around them the room is mad with reflections. In the picture frames, the mirrors, the window backed by the darkness outside, the empty screen of the television that Heira no longer allows him to turn on. In all of these positions, Heira and the Overseer are reflected—two layers, three, four, five, on into the illusion of forever. However, they are always incomplete, always that one degree off that spins the multitude of regressions into a slow curve away from the truly infinite.
She pulls his hands away and opens her eyes. She can see her reflection in his deep-blue gaze, her face placed in the middle of the chasm of his pupil. Maybe, she thinks, something is moving in the distance.
If only she could find her way back.
The Overseer has come to the news station for an emergency broadcast. Their staff diminished through desertion and violence, the remainder has shrunk well past “skeleton crew” and now the station is haunted by the rumor of a ghost of a news team. Still, they stand on ceremony for the Overseer and his military escort, although the typical pomp has been replaced by an air reminiscent of the recent funerals of heads of the Commitment.
“Sir, your wife is here,” the guard says, opening the door to the greenroom for Heira.
“Are you ready?” Heira asks, crossing to where the Overseer readies himself before the mirror.
“Of course.” The Overseer smiles. He leans and she closes her eyes to be kissed on the lids. “I’ve always loved you.”
“I never wanted this,” she says. “But I’ve always known, you know?”
Of course he knows. There are no secrets between them and there never have been. He puts a finger to her lips.
“It’s all right,” the Overseer says. “What has happened, has happened.”
She nods. “And what will come, will come.”
“Then I’ll see you again.”
As the Overseer enters the stage, Heira takes her place behind the camera. These days, even the Overseer’s wife and the editor of the Commitment takes a laboring oar.
As the producer checks the Overseer’s microphone, he whispers to his superior, “Heira once told me that before the Shift, you wrote a book or a novel or something. Something about . . . ” he looks over his shoulder at the empty studio, “ . . . this?”
The Overseer nods. “A story, yes, called ‘Mise en Abyme’.”
“How did it end?” There is a glimmer in his eyes that could have been hope, if it didn’t suspect the truth.
But the Overseer grips the producer’s shoulder, squeezes it once, then turns to walk to his mark in front of the large and empty monitor. Through his tears, the producer counts down the 5-4-3-2 and they are on the air.
“Fellow subjects of the Commitment,” the Overseer begins, the giant monitor behind him displaying live footage of the rioters just outside the station and the ragged line of soldiers holding them at bay, “I know that you have heard rumors and misinformation. That the Commitment has lost control. That our believers have betrayed us, that our technology has failed. That the God we left behind has come back to deal with us.
“This is foolish.”
Beyond the station’s doors, the roar of the wave of the crowd surges, and on the monitor, it crashes against the final bulwark of the Commitment, beginning to break through the beleaguered remnant.
“For indeed we are on the cusp of a great, new beginning. You ask, why then do we not stop the Corrective Executions? Why do we not stop broadcasting them? Because, my fellows, there are purposes and meanings to your sacrifices that even you do not know. Not yet.
“But I understand what you want. You want to again understand your place in existence. You want assurance that the terror of history, the stream that runs from the past, ever onward to the abyssal ocean of infinity, can change course. That there is a way out.
“Well, your sacrifices have not been in vain. Your suffering has proven worthy. If you doubt the Commitment, if you think that it has become too weak and too human in its petty vanities and desires, then I offer you a cleansing. Today, and forever, is the Recommitment.
“Gather your family around the television. Turn on every screen. Watch closely.”
Someone screams in the halls and the locked doors of the studio shudder in their chains and groan on their hinges. Heira pushes a button and the screen behind the Overseer flips over to her camera’s feed. A receding line of Overseers, each more indistinct than the last, stretches off into the distance. So many versions of her husband, each dedicated entirely to her and the Grand Return she has been heralding since she was only a girl. He steps aside now, lets the void of the empty screen show itself upon itself, again and again and again and again.
It curves slightly, but Heira pans the camera over, searching for the proper alignment. At the far end of the tunnel, almost microscopic, the darkness blinks.
She prepares herself for the flood of eyes that will proceed from the Great Voice made flesh. For the Great Voice itself in all its splendor.
For the g
aping hole she will crawl back into to start the cycle again.
I asked Heira if she wanted to read “Mise en Abyme”, to see if I’ve missed any details or taken any liberties, but she declined. She knows it well enough to tell by heart.
“Don’t judge me too harshly,” she said. “I mean, if I have to leave you, afterwards.”
But I took her hand, my sweet wife, for whom I would do anything. I whispered back the words that we will one day say again.
“What has happened will come.”
“And what will come has happened.”
“Then I’ll see you again.”
Beyond us, in the darkness, the Great Voice is calling. The Worm is turning.
In God’s Own Image
Sean M. Davis
Needless to say we love getting submissions from our Boot Camp graduates, and the only thing we love more is accepting them. Sean Davis wrote the following piece as his weekend assignment; then he took his lumps, went home, and rewrote it before submitting it to us. In it, he poses a few elemental questions that caper around the barriers of fundamentalists, cults, and even theologians.
For old times’ sake, Viola sat at the mirror to draw her face. Thick red lines formed her mouth. She traced a thin black line for her nose. Squiggles on the sides of her head were her ears. She felt like cat’s eyes today. And the bobbed wig.
Standing, she made sure the seams of her tights were straight, that there were no wrinkles in her dress. Arthur had encouraged her to take pride in her appearance, even if she only had a lingering sense, more like a memory, of what she’d looked like before the Forming.
She snapped her makeup case shut. Gracefully, she wove around furniture, pausing to caress her favorite ottoman. The satin fabric glided beneath her fingertips and she remembered what it had been like to smile.
The sun warmed her when she exited the apartment building. The breeze riffled her dress. She wished she could see the blue sky, smell the fresh air, hear the world around her. But it was a good day to be alive anyway. Walking down the steps to the sidewalk, she skipped a little.
Behind her, she felt others there, judging her. That took the skip out of her step and she settled into a long stride. Someone followed her, but Viola ignored them. Arthur didn’t give a damn about what others thought of him and neither should she.
The nice weather made the walk to Arthur’s apartment shorter than usual and Viola considered sitting on the stoop until he came outside to check for her. Then, Viola would pat the ground next to her and he’d sit down and they’d enjoy the day together.
Viola stood outside Arthur’s building with her face turned to the breeze so that her wig strained against her scalp, and knew that she didn’t dare stay out in public with a face. The other who had followed her from her building had stopped at a distance when she’d paused, but now took a step closer. Then, two more, even closer. Its puzzled anger radiated through the air at her.
She’d drawn a face on herself. Like a whore.
Viola hurried up the stairs and pounded on the door until she felt it unlock.
Viola scrambled inside, slamming it behind her. Her stalker struck the safety glass with an open palm, once. She braced the door against her folower, but it left quickly.
Bursting into Arthur’s apartment, Viola clutched at him. The familiar texture of his seersucker suit comforted Viola. Arthur’s hesitant arms encircled her for a brief moment before he pushed her away.
She’d worn her face out in public.
Viola nodded, cupping her elbows and turning away. She’d wanted to show him that she could be as brave as he was.
Except there was a difference between bravery and foolishness. Arthur didn’t wear his face outside of their apartments.
Viola hung her head.
Arthur grasped her shoulders, then lifted her chin. What was done, was done, and no use worrying about it now. Arthur traced a finger across Viola’s lightly shaded dimple.
Wait until she felt what he’d found this time.
He bustled out of the room, then strode back in with pomp and circumstance. Viola leaned forward, but Arthur focused on the tune of the march, so she couldn’t read his feelings, except that he was excited.
She should hold out her hands.
When she did, Arthur flourished the taffeta gown he held, letting her trace her fingers across its smooth surface. Viola petted the fabric, shivering, wishing she could see its color. She hoped it was pastel blue, her favorite. She’d forgotten what most of the other colors looked like, but she still remembered that one.
No, it was white.
How did he know?
He just did. She should try it on.
Viola let the dress fall from her hands.
No. There was no point. She couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see it. Everything that had been was gone and there was no point in trying to hold on to it.
Viola went to the window, mourning the sun that she could feel but no longer see.
Arthur picked up the dress, running the lace trim between his fingers.
The use was right here, right now. It was the two of them, sharing old magazines and touching the glossy pages. Putting their hands on the speakers of his stereo to feel the vibrations the music made. Remembering what it had been like to declare their individuality through what they chose to wear, listen to, eat.
Whom they loved.
Dropping the dress, Arthur turned away.
Viola whirled, then crossed the room. Arthur tried to escape her, but she caught him, held him. She touched his face, savoring the subtle difference in texture where he’d drawn a straight line for his mouth, almond-shaped ovals for his eyes. She stood on tiptoes to touch his forehead with hers.
What she felt in such close proximity to him surprised her. He’d been on the edge of despair when he caught her trying on clothes in an abandoned department store. She’d reinvigorated him, inspiring him to hold on to his memories and take what pleasure he could in continuing to live his life as Arthur Golden instead of the faceless Form he’d become.
The skin of their foreheads started melting together.
Arthur pushed her away gently. Puzzled, she reached for him, but he stepped away.
He wanted to share everything with her, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Picking up the dress, he held it out to her.
Would she wear it the next time she came?
Viola took the dress, caressing it, and left.
The next day, Viola stood in front of her door, plucking at the lace trim of the dress Arthur had given her. She hadn’t drawn her face on yet, as he’d advised her. When she arrived at his apartment, he’d already have his on, comfortable with its lines and expression, his toupee already in place. It’d be as if he were already a person and she could only become herself in his presence.
Something about that didn’t feel right.
But it was a smart precaution. She put her hand on the doorknob.
She’d slink along the streets, her head down, ignoring anyone who might pay attention to her and the gown she wore. She’d pretend, just like everyone else who might remember their own faces, but who went along with God’s decreed Forming out of fear. Eventually, by pretending, she’d forget.
Letting go of the knob, she strode over to her mirror and took out her makeup kit. After drawing her face, she felt relieved, in control, more herself than she had all morning. She’d march over to Arthur’s and show him and everyone that she was who she was and she wasn’t afraid.
The streets were empty when she exited her apartment building. She hunched her shoulders up to her outlined ears and hurried along the street. When she rounded the corner onto Arthur’s block, she stopped short. A crowd stood outside his building, clogging the sidewalk, stairs, and entryway.
It couldn’t have anything to do with Arthur. He never went out in publ
ic with his face on and always dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when God had re-Formed humanity. He was perfectly safe, she was sure.
Viola hoped to be able to sneak through, but someone stepped away from the crowd. It was the same one who had followed her yesterday, and one other.
She stumbled, turning in midstride. The two matched her pace, their strides longer. As they neared, she felt their thoughts more clearly.
If she wanted to act like a whore and paint her face, they’d treat her like a whore.
Viola shifted her weight forward so she could run in her heels. Specific thoughts faded to general feelings of anger, frustration, and hate, except for one last thought, seeming to answer why they didn’t chase after her.
They’d wait.
Viola ran back to her building, slamming through the doors until she stood, her weight against her apartment door, trembling.
It was only a coincidence that the man who had followed her the other day had been with the crowd outside Arthur’s building. Had to be.
Viola wished that she could still use a telephone. She’d gotten a new cell phone three weeks before the Forming and still had a landline at the insistence of her mother.
Pacing back and forth, she had an idea. Picturing Arthur in his apartment, reclining in his favorite chair, his feet up on a footstool, she tried calling out to him. His apartment was eight blocks away, but maybe if she shouted, she could . . .
She tried, cupping her hands around the lower half of her face, out of old habit. She stood against the wall she thought was closest to Arthur’s building and tried. As she fretted back and forth around her apartment, she slowly accepted that the return calls she thought she heard were only wishful thinking.
She should go back. Take some kind of weapon. Part the crowd and rush in to save the man in distress.
She had a set of kitchen knives and some heavy, blunt objects, but nothing like a gun.
It would be the first time since the Forming that she’d heard of people being killed, and she would be the one killing them.
Abandoning that plan, she pressed her fists into the sides of her head. There must be something else, another way.
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