Adam complains about paradise.
That bloody reincarnation business.
Why are feet on the floor?
Good luck drives a bum crazy.
A light particle falls in love with a black hole.
Justin goes to war for paradise.
The forgotten holocaust.
Saline buries her heart under a tree.
Shiva enjoys being a boar.
A peasant gets an incantation wrong.
The lost spiritual key.
A young man resents being a dream.
On the fortified desk rattles an ancient quantum computer whose fan blows into my face like a hairdryer on hyperdrive. Behind it perches one of those green-bearded gnomes, dry like a dusty book. His nose bears a mole out of which two hairs grow long. They waft when he asks, “Certificate, please.”
“Ugh, the Soul Health Certification for Rebirth?”
He’s too lazy to look up. “The Psychological Attest of Accomplished Past-life Recapitulation.”
The tattoo. “Here you go,” I present the barcode on my soul arm.
He scans it. “Allergies?”
. . .
Corner Bar, 26th July 2016, 22:15
Mind: Check out Brad Pitt with curly hair.
Mind: At the bar. Blonde. Juicy lips.
Brain: Hugo Boss shirt, well shaved, cool body posture. Looks like he has money and a low stress level.
Mind: He’s smiling at us.
Desire: Body, smile back.
Body: As you wish.
Mind: OMG, he’s coming over.
Brain: Cool, I’m bored.
Mind: But we just broke up with Jim.
Desire: I miss company.
Brain: The fastest way to get over a man is to get under another.
Mind: That’s so gross.
Desire: Maybe Mind is right. We’re not ready yet.
Brain: I’ll just have a chat.
Body: How do I look?
. . .
It was summer but the sun could not reach me. The window was small and high up under the ceiling. I gathered the damp hay, pressed it into a flat pillow, and sat in the corner furthest from the door. The hay smelled sour but that was better than sitting on the cold stone.
The door of my cell was thick like my thigh and fortified with iron bars. It locked me in but I felt it also protected me. At least, as long as it remained shut.
I prayed every time the church bell announced a new hour. I prayed that Mother would come and that she would take me home. And I promised God to be a good girl.
When the door opened it didn’t turn out to be Mother. It was the guard, a bull of a man, with a shiny helmet and a sword and a face that could scare a wolf. He didn’t think much of me and waved at me like one waves at dogs. That was not nice. I was as poor as a stray dog but I was a human.
. . .