Fractal Realities: Lost and Found

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

The last thing I remembered was driving . . . somewhere. Somewhere important. I think to meet somebody. Through one window, the rocky face of mountain frowned at me in slow motion. Through the other, the sea nodded in groups of white-capped heads that murmured silently. I turned with the road.

Now I was standing in a dim hallway. There is no connecting memory between driving and standing. Between motion and inaction. Between then and now.

Thick piles of leaves had been swept up against the walls of the corridor creating a curved kind of a coastline on both sides. Accumulated dirt splashed up against the walls, staining them a dingy brown. There weren't any windows or doors but in every place where it felt like there should be a door, that it would be right for a door to be there, instead squatted a Japanese-style stone lantern. The closest one had a partially burned photograph in its belly and the initials L.T. carved in its face.

The air crackled.

I felt like an intruder but there was no door to leave.

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