8 – The Beginning of the Trek

Steamer knew that the Zone destined trio would likely get past the Survivalists for the same reason people get past any entrenched, self-mythologizing, fake border force; not by overpowering them, not by sneaking past them, but by Steamer understanding the mechanism they actually serve, and playing into it.

It doesn’t take encyclopedic knowledge to know that they claim to hate the government, yet they report intruders to it; though that is never mentioned on the withering, main stream media sources. They claim to guard the Zone, yet they've never entered it, considering it off-limits; thereby showing that they don’t know what it is, or precisely where it is. They claim to be sovereign, yet they crave recognition.

Steamer knows this. He's dealt with them before. He knows exactly how to thread the gap.

The perimeter isn't a wall or a fence. It's a loose ring of improvised outposts; shipping containers, camouflage tarps, old RVs, and watchtowers made from telephone poles. Smoke from barrel fires drifts across the clearing. The place looks like a militia training camp that never quite got its act together.

The Survivalists themselves are a mix of men with long beards and rifles that half don't know how to maintain, women with tactical vests full of empty pouches, and teenagers who've memorized conspiracy jargon but not basic fieldcraft.

They're not incompetent in a sense. They're just performing competence. There’s a slight difference; like the difference between Woody Harrelson playing Mickey Knox and Mickey Knox himself, wherever that might be.

Steamer respects that. He knows performance when he sees it.

Vis-à-vis getting in, Steamer has two advantages. The first and foremost is that he's known. Not liked, not trusted; but known as not having done any damage or looting desecration, something like a Thomas Pynchon knockoff who had a limited, but well chosen market, not entirely limited to nerdy college kids. He's one of the few outsiders who has ever come back from the Zone alive, and that gives him a kind of mythic utility. The Survivalists don't want to enter the Zone themselves, but they want to be close to someone who has. He's their unofficial "liaison to the unknowable," and they treat him with the wary respect you give a man who's survived a place you fear to enter. He also brings them something they crave; validation. Every time he shows up with new "pilgrims," it proves the Zone is still important, still feared, still worth guarding. It keeps their little ecosystem alive.

Steamer knows this. He plays into it without ever offering blandishments, which could easily be dismissed by many, not necessarily bright, as insincere flattery.

 

The trio approach the perimeter at dawn. Mist hangs low. The trees drip. The air feels electrically still.

Prof88 is sweating. Journa14 is trying to look braver than she feels.

A Survivalist steps out from behind a stump; face painted, rifle slung, posture stiff with self-importance.

Steamer whispers to his troops; “Don’t worry. They’re all White.”

Prof88 and Journa14 know a few “appropriate,” boilerplate, well-tested responses, but somehow they also realize that this was not the time and place to regurgitate any of them. Instead, they were silently relieved, in knowing that this was not one of those integrated schools of lower learning, nor a newsroom only interested in parroting proven, prudent, profitable, platitudinal poppycock.

"State your purpose," said the armed one with the Al Jolson blackface sporting big bugga lips.

Steamer doesn't break stride.

"You know my purpose."

The Survivalist hesitates. He recognizes the tone; not arrogance, not defiance, just procedure. Steamer is speaking the way they speak to each other.

Another Survivalist emerges. A woman with a radio clipped to her vest. "You bringing them in?" she asks.

"They paid," Steamer says. "They follow my rules. They won't cause trouble."

Prof88 opens his mouth to say something clever. Steamer cuts him off with a look that could cauterize a wound.

Journa14 keeps her eyes down.

The woman nods slowly.

"You know the deal," she says. "If they run ....... "

"I don't chase," Steamer replies. “They know that. If they do, ....... oh, well.”

"And if they come back wrong?"

"That's your problem," Steamer says.

The Survivalists like that answer. It reinforces their fantasy that they're the final line of defense against whatever the Zone spits out.

The woman steps aside. "Go on, then."

And just like that, the three of them walk past the perimeter; not because they're brave, not because they're stealthy, but because Steamer understands the Survivalists better than they understand themselves.

Understand the invisible structure. The Survivalists don't actually guard the Zone. They guard the idea of the Zone. They are more consistent than the vast majority, as they state precisely what they want, and take the steps they think will bring about those goals. Many call that noble. But, the libbies find the Survivalists their favorite target from a safe distance, they and their bots filling the web with a daily dose of “horror” stories about their uneducated biases; ostensibly not realizing that their safe distance critiques mostly more or less proved their fear of their undisciplined, tougher adversaries.

Steamer is the only one who treats that idea with the correct mixture of respect and contempt. He doesn't challenge their authority, but he doesn't submit to it either. He moves through their world the way a seasoned traveler moves through a small town customs checkpoint; with the confidence of someone who knows the rules and has the requisite papers better than the people enforcing them.

Job done, Steamer’s mind relaxes, allowing in the memory he doesn’t want; the dream he met after it was too late. The one who supported his best interests, when he wasn’t sure what they were. The one who felt the same except for her clinging to the rules, her safety in numbers, her ultimate rejection. The turbulent sea of joy.

Triad

 

Jefferson Airplane

 

You want to know how it will be

Me and her or you and me

You both stand there, your long hair flowing

Your eyes alive, your mind still growing

Saying to me - what can we do now that we both love you

I love you too, I don't really see

Why can't we go on as three

 

You are afraid, embarrassed too

No one has ever said such a thing to you

Your mother's ghost stands at your shoulder

Face like ice, a little bit colder

Saying to you - you can not do that, it breaks

All the rules you learned in school

 

I don't really see

Why can't we go on as three

We love each other, it's plain to see

There's just one answer comes to me

 

Sister lovers, water brothers

And in time maybe others

So you see what we can do is to try something new

If you're crazy too, I don't really see

Why can't we go on as three

 

Written by David Crosby

 

Sea of Joy

 

Blind Faith

 

Following the shadows of the skies

Or are they only figments of my eyes?

And I'm feeling close to when the race is run

Waiting in our boats to set sail

Sea of joy

 

Once the door swings open into space

And I'm already waiting in disguise

Is it just a thorn between my eyes?

Waiting in our boats to set sail

Sea of joy

 

Having trouble coming through

Through this concrete blocks my view

And it's all because of you

Oh, is it just a thorn between my eyes?

Waiting in our boats to set sail

Sea of joy

 

Sea of joy

Sea of joy

Sailing free

Sea of joy

 

Written by Stevie Winwood.

9 - Flashbacks Within a Flashback

It was an old memory, one best forgotten. Still, something caused it to resurrect, and Steamer couldn’t blame Google. It was in his head, and every once in a while, it popped into his frontal lobe. The worst thing was that it was after Emma, which after a short time rightly resulted in the demise of his Mairin thing; her choice. ......... Perhaps, his benefit.

 

Southern California Purples

 

Chicago

 

Haha

It's alright (ha-ha-ha)

Please hit up, please hit it up for me, yeah

 

Cloudy every morning

Sun don't never shine

Cloudy every morning

Sun don't ever shine

No, oh-oh-oh-oh

 

Since I lost my baby

I been losing my mind

 

I thought this was a warm place

I must be in the wrong place

Thought this was a warm place

I must be in the wrong place

 

And I don't know where I'm going

Since my lover left me

Never no smile on my face

 

I am, he is, you are, he is, you are me,

and we are all together, whoa-whoa

 

Buddy, this ain't LA

I've travelled such a long way

Buddy, this ain't LA

I've travelled such a long way

 

And I still don't know where I'm going

But without my baby

I better not stay

I better not stay, oh-oh-oh, no-no

 

Written by Robert William Lamm

 

He was back in his room, waiting for she. He was feeling amorous, and that was okay because his and her will was good. He couldn’t help but visualize her naked very full hips, other parts, too; he had first seen advertised up on the hill. Come to think of it, the whole package. They had some plans to go over, a picnic in the woods to attend, and a long day, but he couldn’t concentrate in his state of mind.

Stoned Soul Picnic

 

Laura Nyro

 

Can you surry?

Can you picnic?

Can you surry?

Can you picnic?

 

C'mon, c'mon and

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

 

There'll be lots of time and wine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Stoned Soul

Stoned Soul

 

C'mon, c'mon and

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

 

Rain and sun come in akin

And from the sky

Come the Lord and the lightnin'

And from the sky

Come the Lord and the lightnin'

 

Stoned Soul

Stoned Soul

Surry on surry

Surry, surry, surry, surry

 

There'll be trains of blossoms

There'll be trains of music

There'll be music

There'll be trains of trust

Trains of golden dust

Come along a surry oh

Sweet trains of thought

 

Surry on down

Can you surry?

Can you surry?

 

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

 

There'll be lots of time and wine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Moonshine

 

Stoned Soul yeah

Surry on surry

Surry

Surry

Surry

...

 

Written by Laura Nyro

 

She showed up.

“All right, what’s the big deal?”

“Plenty, today’s a big day. Are you a morning person?”

“Don’t start! I’m chasing around a bit and I’m not in the mood.”

“You need to relax. You know the best way?”

She laughed out loud, simultaneously, feeling her first warmth of the day and said; “Okay, but let’s not make it a fast one.”

Both removed their blue jeans and ....

An improvisational song played somewhere. Maybe it was a Bix Beiderbecke coronet fronting for Frankie Trumbauer; “In a Mist,” though the time was less right than those prevalent “newsters” would allow.

They lay still about ten minutes, but they weren’t counting, looking at each other somewhat dazed and sometimes just staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

He was compelled to break the silence and said; “Time for business, lady. Last night I made arrangements to borrow three million dollars. This should go pretty easily. I’ll show up at 6PM and you pretend I’m the guy from the bank. I enter and meet your husband. After a while I’ll pull my gun. When he calms down, I’ll handcuff him and you help me tie him to the chair. Do you have some clothesline around?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, if you don’t, go get some. A lot.”

“Okay, but you said no killing.”

“The gun is just to get him calm and reasonable. Worst case, I’ll fire a shot at the ceiling, probably hit something like a chandelier to remind him it’s loaded.”

“I’d feel better if it wasn’t at our house, but I’ll trust you.”

“Great. I’m trusting you, too. I’ll then offer him the best deal of his life. Everything should be fine. If you disagree with anything you see or hear, tell me about it later. Oh, dear lady, when we were talking about money, things have been going so fast that I forgot to tell you I have about one million dollars in a safe deposit box. I knew I’d have to use it all in this deal anyway.”

“I trust you. Let’s not split yet. I know a movie theatre five miles away that plays old films. Let’s go sit in the dark for a while, and be somebody else.”

“Anywhere with you is great with me. I like old movies anyway. I might fall asleep, though. I’m a bit tired.”

They took her Mercedes and she drove silently to the appointed spot. They parked in the small dirt lot, which looked as if it had not been maintained or repaired for some time. It contained no other cars. They saw the plastic lettered marquee indicating that “All That Heaven and Earth Allow” was playing. Neither of them knew the film. As they walked to the ticket booth they noticed that the stills were in black and white.

He said; “The title suggests that this is going to be a long one.”

She looked at him, with a bit of an incredulous posture and deadpanned; “Not if it had a good editor.”

The ticket booth was empty when they got there, so they walked right inside. They shuffled around the lobby looking at the stills on the wall, keeping an eye out for help. When none came in a few minutes, they decided to walk right in. As he was opening the door a woman of about sixty entered the lobby from another door, trailed by a man of similar age. She had long gray hair and dressed younger than her years. His countenance was more of a disheveled acquiescence to his time, wearing proper attire that was maintained as well as the parking lot. He also had long gray hair, though much of the middle was now missing. He seemed somber. The old woman smiled at the venturesome couple and said; “It’s already started, so go right in and enjoy it.”

She said; “We really should pay you something, shouldn’t we?”

The older woman replied; “No. It’s already playing and it’s too much trouble for me to start handling money right now. We’ve got other things to do.” She looked at her companion and smiled. He silently followed her out through the same door previously used as the entry.

He and she simultaneously said “Thanks,” an echo of sorts, and continued through the door which led to the screening room. No one else seemed to be there, though they couldn’t be sure in the dark. He followed her down the center aisle to furry seats about 10 rows from the screen, right in the middle of it.

The movie was at a point where the actions and dialogue made no sense to them. If there were any way to succinctly describe what they saw and heard, it would probably be worry, combat and randomness, with no obvious logic. They leaned heads and shoulders against each other and quickly fell asleep.

They woke up to a crescendo of classical music, apparently the end. Still half asleep they watched the two lovers on the screen hold each other. As it was early in their awakening, they could have been wrong, but visually, it seemed that the two screen characters merged. He became her and she him. They both had the same thought. The merger could be an illusion caused by their dreary state, but they would have bet their lives, that at the very least, her eyes became his and vice-versa.

The movie did end right there and the two stood up to leave. Each knew the thoughts of the other, so they exchanged questioning and knowing looks as they walked. Neither knew the right thing to say and didn’t want to ruin the mood. They slowly walked back to her car, the bright sun shocking them back to the reality of the moment.

Down By The River

 

Neil Young

 

Be on my side. I'll be on your side, baby

There is no reason for you to hide

It's so hard for me staying here all alone

When you could be taking me for a ride

 

She could drag me over the rainbow

And send me away

 

Down by the river

I shot my baby

Down by the river

 

Dead, ooh, ooh, shot her dead, ooh

 

You take my hand, I'll take your hand

Together we may get away

This much madness is too much sorrow

It's impossible to make it today

 

She could drag me over the rainbow

And send me away

 

Down by the river

I shot my baby

Down by the river

 

Dead, dead, ooh, ooh, shot her dead, shot her dead

 

Be on my side. I'll be on your side

There is no reason for you to hide

It's so hard for me staying here all alone

When you could be taking me for a ride

 

She could drag me over the rainbow

And send me away

 

Down by the river

I shot my baby

Down by the river

 

Down by the river

I shot my baby

Down by the river

 

Down by the river

I shot my baby

Down by the river

 

Written by Neil Young

 

He said; “You’ve got the plan nailed down, right?”

She nodded yes in a subdued, but confident manner, her mind still partially in the theatre. She silently drove him back to the motel, slowly regaining 100% focus on the anticipated event of the evening. When she pulled into a parking space in front of his room, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. For some reason he was concerned about her and gently said, “Are you all right?”

She said; “I’m good. This hasn’t been a bad day, even after the rocky start you caused.”

He touched her hand gently, exited the car and went into his room. She drove back home.

The day got even better, when she found clothes line in the house. It must have been left by the previous owner. It gave her plenty of time to picture the events. She thought that it was a good plan. The only tricky part was how Alan would react if and when he realizes he’s not going to get shot. She hoped he didn’t start haggling for a better deal. She sat on the couch.

He thought; “Isn’t she great? Most anybody would have asked a million questions about the million dollars and why I didn’t tell her earlier, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. He sat down on a chair, turned the TV on and relaxed. He saw a news program which showed the continuation of the left wing Democrat onslaught. He thought that if anyone could stop it, it would at least take a husband and wife team in the mold of Teddy and Edith Roosevelt. He probably dozed a bit and roused at 5PM. He had time for a last minute check. He found his .32 handgun and spun the chamber. It was fully loaded, though he decided to bring another small package of bullets. He had the handcuffs and key. What else might he need? Nothing he could think of. He sat, not thinking of a thing except the possibilities of the next few hours. It seemed simple; either a smart Alan complies or a stupid Alan doesn’t. The latter thought was an insoluble problem for him, as he intended to keep his “no killing” promise. This would leave Alan in a position to identify not only him, but her involvement. He hoped Alan was brighter than his business dealings indicated.

The thought disturbed him. The only thing he really knew about Alan was that he made a mess of things. It didn’t seem especially difficult to run a motel and a few other dink operations in a small town. If he didn’t gamble or whore, how could he lose more than three million dollars seemingly fast? He didn’t sound like he was likely to go the gambling, whoring route, but he couldn’t be sure. People can be surprising. One thing for certain; people quickly get reasonable with a gun in their face. He hoped for the best. He didn’t want to break his promise to her and then tell her that he didn’t lie to her, as the gun went off “accidentally.”

Constantine's Dream

 

Patti Smith

 

In Arezzo I dreamed a dream

Of Saint Francis who kneeled and prayed

For the birds and the beasts and all humankind

All through the night I felt drawn in by him

And I heard him call like a distant hymn

 

I retreated from the silence of my room

Stepping down the ancient stones washed with dawn

And entered the basilica that bore his name

(O Signore, fa' che sia strumento della tua Pace)

Seeing his effigy I bowed my head

(Dove c'è odio, lascia che sia Amore)

And my racing heart I gave to him I kneeled and prayed

(Dove c'è offesa, Perdono)

And the sleep that I could not find in the night

(Dove c'è dubbio, Fede)

I found through him

(Dove c'è disperazione, Speranza)

 

I saw before me the world of his world

(Dove c'è oscurità, Luce)

The bright fields, the birds in abundance

(Dove c'è tristezza, Gioia)

All of nature of which he sang, singing of him

(Fa' ch'io non cerchi tanto)

All the beauty that surrounded him as he walked

(Di essere consolato, quanto consolare)

His nature that was nature itself

(Di essere compreso, quanto comprendere)

And I heard him, I heard him speak

(Di essere amato, quanto amare)

 

And the birds sang sweetly

And the wolves licked his feet

But I could not give myself to him

I felt another call from the basilica itself

The call of art, the call of man

And the beauty of the material drew me away

And I awoke, and beheld upon the wall

The dream of Constantine

 

The handiwork of Piero della Francesca

Who had stood where I stood

And with his brush stroked

The Legend of the True Cross

And he envisioned Constantine advancing

to greet the enemy

But as he was passing the river

An unaccustomed fear gripped his bowels

An anticipation so overwhelming

that it manifested in waves

All through the night a dream

drew toward him as an advancing Crusade

 

He slept in his tent on the battlefield

While his men stood guard

And an angel awoke him

Constantine within his dream awoke

And his men saw a light pass

over the face of the King

The troubled King

And the angel came and showed to him

the sign of the true cross in heaven

 

And upon it was written

In this sign shall thou conquer

In the distance the tents of his army

were lit by moonlight

But another kind of radiance

lit the face of Constantine

And in the morning light

The artist, seeing his work was done

Saw that it was good

 

In this sign shall thou conquer

He let his brush drop and passed

into a sleep of his own

And he dreamed of Constantine

carrying into battle in his right hand

An immaculate, undefiled single white Cross

Piero della Francesca, as his brush stroked the wall

Was filled with a torpor

And fell into a dream of his own

 

From the geometry of his heart he mapped it out

He saw the King rise, fitted with armor

Set upon a white horse

An immaculate cross in his right hand

He advanced toward the enemy

And the symmetry,

the perfection of his mathematics

Caused the scattering of the enemy

 

Agitated, broken, they fled

And Piero della Francesca waking, cried out

All is art, all is future

Oh Lord let me die on the back of adventure

With a brush and an eye full of light

 

But as he advanced in age

The light was shorn from his eyes blinded

He laid upon his bed

on an October morning 1492, and whispered

Oh Lord let me die on the back of adventure

Oh Lord let me die on the back of adventure, oh

 

And a world away, a world away

On three great ships

Adventure itself as if to answer

Pulling into the New World

And as far as his eyes could see

No longer blind

 

All of nature unspoiled, beautiful-beautiful

In such a manner that would have lifted

the heart of St. Francis

Into the realm of universal love

 

Columbus stepped foot on the new world

And witnessed beauty unspoiled

All the delights given by God

As if an Eden itself, as if Eden

had opened her heart to him

And opened her dress

And all of her fruit gave to him

 

And Columbus so overwhelmed

Fell into a sleep of his own

All the world in his sleep

All of the beauty, all of the beauty

entwined with the future

The twenty first century

Advancing like the angel

Advancing like the angel

That had come to Constantine

Constantine in his dream

 

Oh this is your cross to bear

Oh Lord Oh Lord let me deliver

Hallowed adventure to all mankind

In the future, oh, art cried the painter

Oh art, Oh art, cried the angel

Art the great material gift of man

Art that hath denied

the humble pleas of St. Francis

 

Oh thou Artist

All shall crumble into dust

Oh thou navigator

The terrible end of man

This is your gift to mankind

This is your cross to bear

 

And Columbus saw all of nature aflame

The apocalyptic night

And the dream of the troubled King

Dissolved into light

 

Written by Patti Smith and Leonard J Kaye

10– On the Way

They’re off and inevitably it won’t take long for there to be the first anomaly; the first moment Prof88's bravado cracks, the first time Journa14 realizes she's in a story she can't control through manipulation-misrepresentation-POV-spin. If not for that this wouldn’t be about humans. Steamer is different though; as he’s now operating as a mercenary; a professional in this regard no different than a technology conglomerate-monopoly which is forcing everyone to use and pay for it’s hallucinatory AI.

I Looked at You

 

The Doors

 

I looked at you

You looked me

I smiled at you

You smiled at me

 

And we're on our way

No we can't turn back, babe

Yeah, we're on our way

And we can't turn back

 

'Cause it's too late

Too late, too late

Too late, too late

 

And we're on our way

No we can't turn back, babe

Yeah, we're on our way

And we can't turn back, yeah

 

C'mon, yeah

 

I walked with you

You walked with me

I talked to you

You talked to me

 

And we're on our way

No we can't turn back, yeah

Yeah, we're on our way

And we can't turn back, yeah

 

'Cause it's too late

Too late, too late

Too late, too late

 

And we're on our way

No we can't turn back

Yeah, we're on our way

And we can't turn back

 

'Cause it's too late

Too late, too late

Too late, too late

 

Written by Jim Morrison, John Paul Densmore, Robert A Krieger, and Raymond D Manzarek

 

They'd been walking for what seemed like hours, the terrain flattening into that strange pre-Zone sameness; grass too uniform, air too still, the horizon refusing to commit to a shape. Prof88 had been monologuing the whole time, of course. Something about "liminality as a measurable phenomenon" and "the epistemic arrogance of government cartographers."

Steamer and Journa14 let him talk, the former not listening. Journa14 was already drafting the opening paragraphs of her exposé in her head, the one where she'd frame either Steamer or Proff88 as brilliant, but deluded; the latter the easier choice because of his banal beak babel. Easy copy.

Then the wind stopped. Not slowed. Stopped entirely. The grass froze mid-sway, like a paused video. Prof88's voice snagged on a word. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then he stepped back.

That was the first crack. He didn't comment on it; didn't have a theory ready, didn't even pretend to. He just stared at the grass like it had personally betrayed him.

Journa14 lifted her forbidden camera, which Steamer had chosen to disregard. But when she looked through the viewfinder, the field wasn't frozen. It was just ...... wrong. The grass was bending in directions that didn't match the real world. Some blades leaned toward her. Some leaned away. Some leaned toward a point she couldn't see.

She lowered the camera. The field was still frozen. Raised it again. Chaos. Her breath hitched. Not fear; annoyance. She hated when equipment malfunctioned. It made her feel dependent. "Is this ..... normal?" she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

Steamer hid a smirk with his forearm.

Prof88 didn't answer. He was pale. Actually pale. The man who had lectured her for two days straight about "embracing the unknown" was now gripping the strap of his pack like it was a lifeline.

That was the moment she realized two things. He wasn't in control of this story. And neither was she. The Zone wasn't going to be something she could frame, angle, or spin. It was going to be something that acted back.

She raised the camera again; because that's what she always did when she didn't know what else to do, and this time the field wasn't frozen or chaotic. It was looking at her. She lowered the camera so fast she almost dropped it.

 

And there it was.

It was a wonderfully dense little slice of early 20th century rural life. There was a long wooden building with a hand painted sign reading “Covelo Stables,” advertising saddle horses, pack mules, and guides for hunters. The façade is simple board and batten construction, the kind of structure built for work rather than display. The wide barn doors are thrown open, revealing hanging saddles and tack inside; functional gear rather than staged decoration.

A small group of men were gathered out front, each in period hats and work clothes. Their posture is relaxed, almost communal; some sitting on the edge of the platform, others standing with hands in pockets, as if this is the natural social center of the town. A vintage automobile is parked at an angle in front of the building, its presence quietly marking the transitional moment when horses and cars coexisted.

The whole scene feels unhurried and unselfconscious. It’s a working place, but also a meeting place, captured at a moment when the rhythms of rural life were shifting but still intact.

 

Journa14 said; “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” as she snapped away.

Steamer said; “Cut that! These people think you’re pointing some weapon at them.”

Journa14 said; “In a sense I am,” as she continued to click.

Steamer was annoyed as hell and said; “If they take you on, you’ll be quite sorry. Stop it right now, or I’m heading back.”

Journa14 sighed heavily and put her camera down. She waved to the men in front of the stable, and they just stared; no threat, no smile; a cold stare, like Mike Tyson glaring at his opponent, while he wasn’t listening to the referee’s required pre-fight “instructions.”

Bitter Creek

 

Eagles

 

Once I was young and so unsure

I'd try any ill to find the cure

An old man told me

Tryin' to scold me

"Oh, son, don't wade to deep in Bitter Creek,"

(Bitter Creek)

Out where the desert meets the sky

Is where I go when I wanna hide

 

Oh, peyote (oh,peyote,mm)

She tried to show me

(tried to show me)

You know there ain't no cause to weep

at Bitter Creek

(Bitter Creek)

Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo

Doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo doo

 

We're gonna hit the road for one last time

We can walk right in and steal 'em blind

All that money (All that money,ooh..)

No more runnin' (No more runnin')

I can't wait to see the old man's face

When I win the race

(Bitter Creek)

Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo,

Doo doo doo doo doo

Doo.........

 

Written by Bernie Leadon

 

Steamer’s warning still hung in the air like a badly tuned engine or a wet fart, and for a moment everyone froze in that strange, brittle silence the Zone liked to manufacture.

Then Journo14, still sulking, muttered; “Fine, fine, fine. But just for the stopped filming, I’d like to personally be on record as noting that this light is perfect, while the antiquated people leave something to be desired. It’s like the sun is apologizing for something.”

Prof88, who had been quiet until now, adjusted his glasses and said; “The sun is apologizing. It’s been dimmer since Tuesday. I ran the numbers.”

Steamer shot him a look. “You didn’t run anything. You stared at your phone until it died.”

“That is running numbers,” Prof88 said, offended. “Emotionally.”

The men in front of the stable continued their Tyson stare, unmoving, like they were waiting for a referee who had wandered off to check his voicemail.

Journo14 tried a small wave again. “Hi. Sorry. No weapon. Just a camera.”

One of the stable men finally moved; slowly raising a hand, palm out, as if signaling her to stop, or possibly signaling an airplane to land, or possibly just stretching, or doing a “Heil Hitler.” It was impossible to tell, and one saw what they chose to see.

Steamer groaned. “Great. Now they think you’re trying to negotiate.”

“I’m not negotiating,” she said. “I’m acknowledging their presence.”

“That’s worse,” Steamer said. “They hate acknowledgment. Last week someone nodded at them and they built a fence around his car.”

Prof88 perked up. “A very nice fence, though. Cedar.”

The tallest stable man took one step forward. Not threatening; just ..... declarative. As if the step itself was a thesis statement.

Journo14 whispered, “What does that mean?”

Steamer whispered back, “It means nothing. That’s the problem. These ethereal entities communicate in gestures that don’t map to human categories.”

A second stable man lifted a bucket and held it out toward them.

Journo14 blinked. “Is that ..... an offering?”

Prof88 squinted. “Or a challenge.”

Steamer sighed. “Or lunch. Hard to say.”

A third stable man finally spoke, voice flat as plywood: “You dropped this.”

They all looked down. At their feet was a single horseshoe, glowing faintly, vibrating like a cell phone on silent.

Journo14 whispered, “That’s not ours.”

The stable man shrugged. “It is now.”

Steamer rubbed his face. “Okay. Everyone back up slowly. If we accept it, we’re in a pact. If we refuse it, we’re in a feud. If we ignore it, we’re in a ritual.”

Prof88 nodded gravely. “Classic trilemma.”

Journo14 sighed. “Can I take one picture of the horseshoe?”

Steamer snapped, “No!”

The horseshoe buzzed louder, as if offended.

Journo14 whispered, “It heard you.”

Steamer whispered back, “Everything hears everything here.”

The stable men continued staring, unblinking, like statues waiting for someone to admit they were statues.

Journo14 exhaled. “Okay. So what do we do?”

Steamer said, “We do the only sensible thing.”

Prof88 nodded. “Run?”

Steamer shook his head. “No. We pretend we’ve been here before.”

And then, with absolute confidence, he bent down, picked up the vibrating horseshoe, and said loudly: “Ah yes. This one. Thank you.”

The stable men nodded in perfect unison, as if that was exactly the right answer.

Journo14 whispered, “What does that mean?”

Steamer whispered, “No idea. But it bought us ten seconds.”

Prof88 spoke, voice thin. "We ..... we should keep moving." Not a lecture. Not a theory. Just fear wearing the mask of suggestion.

Journa14 didn't argue. For the first time since she'd recently met him, she didn't have a clever line ready.

They walked on, and the wind still hadn't started again, but the terrain abruptly changed.

Ostensibly having made some semblance of recovery, Prof88 shrieked; “Hossanah,” upon seeing the cactus, wild burros, and desert. “This little miracle is just what those ‘scientific’ nerds took away from us! Faith in ‘The Unnamable.’ Their numbers, computers, and calculations are just so boringly lifeless. It is continual, each building a wreck upon the back of the previous wreck. Just today, it was gleefully announced that the shroud of Turin has been subjected to new DNA analysis, with a few ‘surprising’ results.”

“They said; ‘It sure looks like a person, but the evidence suggests the shroud is more than likely a hoax.’ This is to ignore the fact that modern science, for the first time, has verified the date of origin as being from Christ’s time. They can’t live with that, so they get off on stupid tangents, trying to infer they’re some sort of refutation. Why, they’d take this change from wet grassland to desert as necessitating a ‘to be determined’ study of burros, and their evolving habitat, as if that had something to do with the miraculously re-drawn landscape.”

“Enlighten us, Prof,” said Steamer; continuing on to add; “But don’t tell us your real truth. That you object to the scientist’s approach, not because it is any more wrong than their historically continual ‘updates and corrections,’ but rather they have deemed you marginal, less than average, unworthy.”

Prof88 had heard this before, and was prepared with the brevity which served to establish a deflecting, second talking point. He said; “Your personal attack ignores the substance; ad hominem as a demonstration of your foolish judgements. For your edification a new study has analyzed DNA found on the Shroud of Turin, a large piece of linen cloth used to wrap the body of Jesus Christ, according to believers, and a clever medieval hoax, according to radiocarbon dating. The Shroud of Turin, as far as historical records show, first showed up around 1353–1357, in the possession of French knight Geoffroi de Charny. No record remains of how de Charny got his own hands on the object.

Given how the shroud has been seen as authentic by many modern Christians, the truth being attested by the artist who painted it, nevertheless, popes through the years have made pilgrimages to the shroud, with Pope Francis visiting it as late as 2015.

‘The icon of this love is the shroud, that, even now, has attracted so many people here to Turin,’ Francis said of the shroud. ‘The shroud draws people to the tormented face and body of Jesus and, at the same time, directs people toward the face of every suffering and unjustly persecuted person.’

The shroud, or relic is rarely on display today. However, it has been submitted to scientific testing in recent years, in order to try and pin down when and where it was created. On that front, it looks good for believers. Prior carbon dating of samples taken from the shroud by several laboratories had concluded that the cloth was made between 1260 and 1390, suggesting that it was forged around the time that it entered the historical record. But now, the ‘advanced’ methodologies have concluded that it is 2,000 years old. Yet, in looking at the results, the team chose to ignore that major fact, and instead focused on the diverse array of plant and animal species on the shroud.

As would be expected without a need for ‘state of the art’ science, they found DNA from several people who had handled the shroud. They made note of the plant and vegetable matter found on the samples, including wild carrot, oranges, bananas, and peanuts, saying; ‘We demonstrated that the carrot DNA found on the Shroud is genetically more similar to early cultivars and improved cultivars, which were proven to descend from orange carrot varieties developed in Europe between the 15th and 16th centuries,’ the team writes, adding that oranges and bananas were introduced to the continent during the high-late Middle Ages. ‘The prevalence of Mediterranean crops and the absence of typical Middle Eastern flora raise questions about the agricultural landscape when the Shroud was created or used as a burial cloth,’ they add. Comparative analyses with other ancient textiles and artifacts could further illuminate cultural and historical interactions with plants and animals.’

In terms of animals, the pseudo scientists found a wide range, including pigs, sheep, goats, chickens, rabbits, and horses, as well as domestic cats and dogs. From this, the team suggests that the shroud has Mediterranean origins or was contaminated during transit through this region, which is a supposedly intelligent and diverting way of saying; ‘I don’t know.’

The team also found a few surprises (to them) when looking at the human DNA. ‘A quantitative assessment of the overall amplicon sequencing data revealed that over 55.6% of the human DNA corresponds to lineages from the Near East, while Western European lineages account for less than 5.6%. The presence of 38.7% of the overall human genomic data from Indian lineages is unexpected and is potentially linked to historical interactions associated with importing linen or yarn from regions near the Indus Valley, referred to as 'Hindoyin' according to rabbinic texts. Again, given what we know of trade in the past, this makes an authentic relic scenario more unlikely. Nevertheless, it appears to be an interesting fake, with plenty of secrets to reveal through DNA analysis, shedding light on the history of plants and animals in the region through DNA left on it over the centuries.’

Is more explanation of spirit assassination required?”

“Streamer deadpanned; “It works well; doesn’t it?”

 

The desert being crossed is the kind that feels older than memory; an expanse of pale sand and sun bleached stone, dotted with Joshua trees that twist upward like question marks left by some ancient traveler. The air shimmers with heat, but not oppressively. It’s the kind of warmth that makes sound travel strangely, as if every word has to push through a veil of light, perhaps altered along the way.

The donkeys; wild burros really, move with a calm, almost ceremonial slowness. Their coats are dusty silver and dun, blending into the landscape so well that each one seems to materialize only when it decides to be seen. They watch the three travelers with the mild curiosity of creatures who have seen countless wanderers pass through the Zone area and know better than to interfere. Occasionally one snorts, or stamps a hoof, or wanders close enough that the travelers can hear the soft crunch of dry shrubs between its teeth.

The desert itself feels alive in a quiet, contemplative way. Wind drags thin lines across the sand. The sky is a wide, pale bowl, clouds drifting like scraps of old parchment. Everything here seems to be waiting for something; though whether it’s revelation or ruin is impossible to tell.

Prof88, ever the analyst, tries to map meaning onto the landscape. He talks about the geometry of dunes, the strange consistency of the soil, the way the burros seem to appear at irregular intervals; as if marking a path only they understand. He wonders aloud whether the Zone is shaping itself around them, or whether they are simply noticing patterns that were always there.

Journa14 records everything, but not in a detached way.

They speak of stories they’ve heard; travelers who entered the Zone and came back changed, or didn’t come back at all. They interview the desert itself, asking questions no one expects answers to. “What are you hiding?” “What do you want us to see?”, as if the wind might whisper something back.

Steamer, practical and unbothered, focuses on the journey. He talks about the weight of his pack, the next water stop, the way the burros’ presence is oddly reassuring. But even he can’t help drifting into future speculation; what the innermost room might look like, what it might demand of them, whether the stories of impossible objects and shifting physics are exaggerations or understatements.

As they walk, the burros occasionally fall into step beside them, like silent escorts. The desert stretches on, patient and inscrutable, and the three travelers move toward the heart of the Zone; each carrying their own questions, and each suspecting that the answers waiting ahead may not be the ones they expect; in other words wishful thinking.

A Horse With No Name

 

America

 

On the first part of the journey

I was looking at all the life

There were plants and birds and rocks and things

There was sand and hills and rings

The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz

And the sky with no clouds

The heat was hot, and the ground was dry

But the air was full of sound

 

I've been through the desert

On a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert, you can remember your name

'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain

 

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

 

After two days in the desert sun

My skin began to turn red

After three days in the desert fun

I was looking at a river bed

And the story it told of a river that flowed

Made me sad to think it was dead

 

You see I've been through the desert

On a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert, you can remember your name

'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

 

After nine days, I let the horse run free

'Cause the desert had turned to sea

There were plants and birds and rocks and things

There was sand and hills and rings

 

The ocean is a desert with it's life underground

And a perfect disguise above

Under the cities lies a heart made of ground

But the humans will give no love

 

You see I've been through the desert

On a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert, you can remember your name

'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain

 

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

 

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la, la, la, la

 

Written by Michael Joe Jackson and Dewey Bunnell

 

Steamer spotted a five foot wide, circular hole in the path right in front of them. He stopped for a second and silently pointed at it.

Prof 88 said; “This is a phenomenon with which I am quite familiar. Could that be a 3-D drawing put there to trick us?”

Journa14 said; “Well, I’m not going to be the first one to step on it and find out.”

Steamer walked right into it, and the others followed. The ground beneath them sloped gradually downward until they were again single file on a flat surface; oblivious to the blank darkness which seemed to be getting more extensive in scope.

Their eyes adjusted to the lack of light, they encountered a rabbit; a large rabbit who’s ears reached the ceiling. She wore a dress, a lavender blazer, and sported two big buck teeth which protruded from her mouth and finally came to a kindhearted end somewhere near her chin. She seemed to be smiling, but said; “You’ve reached the end of the line.”

Steamer said; “Is there’s anyone else here?”

The rabbit said; “Of course, silly. You three. ..... You’re the only ones who have made it this far. ........ Well, besides me and Red; and he’s been long gone. ....... I’m Hawa, the last big bunny. ..... Some used to call me Jo.”

Steamer, Prof88, and Journa14 introduced themselves, and then drew a bit of a blank. Eventually, Prof88 said; “Is there some way for us to get out ahead?”

Hawa said; “No. You’ll have to go back the way you came. If you’re tired you can rest here for a while.”

Journa14 first checked with Steamer, and then said; “No thank you. We’ll leave.”

Hawa said; “No need to rush. You can hide here with me for a while. I’ll make some tea.” She slowly nodded as she watched them walk away, backtracking slowly.

They found the hole in the roof and climbed out, the sun now directly on them.

Steamer groaned a bit as he saw the light of the new day. His snout released a low murmur, perhaps a combination of noncommittal happiness to see it, combined with a sadness that his underground dream had ended. But, the little aggravation was not yet allowed to make any big decisions. He had more important things to do; like after being disoriented deciding which way to walk. Steamer decided to follow the sun, and got no objections.

The trio heard Hawa call out to them; “Beware the Survivalists and their surreptitious government supporters. They play both sides of your head against its middle.”

Or maybe they were merely predisposed, and just wanted to think that they heard an underground rabbit give them advice, intending it to be helpful.

11-Gas

They had been walking for what seemed like hours; heat shimmering, horizon empty, the usual desert silence that feels like it’s listening. Then, without transition, the gas station simply existed ahead of them. Not appeared, not materialized; just was, as if it had always been there and everyone had somehow failed to notice.

It was a squat wooden building with US POST OFFICE stenciled in fading black, with two antique pumps; BANKERS MOTOR FUEL, standing like relics from a decade that never quite happened. A yellow and red car sat beside them, overloaded with luggage lashed to the roof. A man on the running board was tightening a strap. Another stood in the doorway holding a mail sack, watching the newcomers with the calm of someone who has seen stranger things than three desert walkers.

The air around the place felt slightly cooler, but not in a comforting way; more like a draft drawn from the refinery, or an oddly scented room whose door shouldn’t be open.

Steamer stops first, squints, and mutters, “Yeah. That wasn’t here a minute ago.” He says it like he’s noting a change in barometric pressure; annoyed, but not surprised. The Zone has trained him to treat the impossible as a scheduling inconvenience.

Prof88 pushes his sunglasses up, trying to look analytical but mostly looking dehydrated. “Is this ..... is this a mirage? Because I read about ..... ”

Steamer cuts him off with a raised hand. “If it were a mirage, you wouldn’t be talking. You’d be drooling.”

Prof88 bristles but says nothing.

Journa14 is already taking notes on her Acer Aspire 1 Notebook, because of course she is. “This wasn’t on any map. Not even the old ones.”

Steamer: “It’s neither here nor there. The Zone doesn’t use maps. It uses moods.”

Journa14: “That’s not helpful.”

Steamer: “Wasn’t trying to be.”

The man at the pumps climbs down from the running board, wipes his hands on his trousers, and studies them with a kind of polite, rural suspicion. He asks; “You guys lost?”

Steamer: “No. Just passing through.”

The man nods slowly, as if “passing through” is a category he recognizes but doesn’t approve of.

“You don’t want to linger,” he says. “Things shift.”

Prof88 whispers, “Shift how?”

The man shrugs. “Depends what you brought with you.”

The Post Office man steps forward, mail sack over his shoulder. “You headed east or west?”

Steamer: “Neither.”

That answer lands like a stone in a bucket. The two station men exchange a look; quick, practiced, almost ritual.

The Post Office man says, “Then you’ll want to keep moving. This place doesn’t stay put for people without a direction.”

Journa14: “We have a direction.”

Steamer: “No, we don’t.”

Journa14 glares at him, but Steamer’s tone has that finality he uses when the truth is more important than morale.

The pumps tick faintly, though no fuel flows. The car’s luggage shifts as if settling. The building’s shadow is at the wrong angle for the sun. And the desert around them feels like it’s waiting to see what they choose.

Steamer finally says, “Alright. We’re moving.”

Prof88: “But we just got here.”

Steamer: “Exactly.”

They walk on. After twenty steps, Prof88 looks back.

The gas station was gone.

They keep walking for a while in that brittle desert quiet. No one talks. Even Prof88 has the sense to let the silence settle.

It’s Steamer who finally breaks it. “Don’t look for it again,” he says. “That’s how it gets you.”

Prof88: “Gets you how?”

Steamer: “By making you think it was meant for you forever staying the same.” He was again thinking of Mairin, but didn’t expound on the specifics, as he regarded them as his own; completely private; and certainly not any business of the bot net.

Journa14 scribbles that down, which irritates Steamer more than the question.

About ten minutes later, the light changes; not dramatically, just enough that the shadows feel a half step out of sync with the sun. Steamer notices first. He always does.

He stops. “Okay. That’s new.”

Prof88: “What? What now?”

Steamer turns and points at the ground. Their footprints behind them are gone. Not blown away. Not covered. Just ..... not there.

Journa14: “So the station was real?”

Steamer: “Real enough to leave a seam.”

Prof88: “A seam?”

Steamer: “The Zone patches itself. Sometimes the stitching shows.”

They crest a low rise. On the other side is nothing but more desert; flat, pale, endless. But the air has that faint metallic taste again, the one Steamer never tries to explain.

Prof88: “So those men; at the station; were they people? Or constructs? Or .....”

Steamer: “They were doing a job.”

Journa14: “For who?”

Steamer: “Not for who. For whatever runs this place.”

Prof88: “You mean the government?”

Steamer: “No. The Zone doesn’t take orders.” He says it with the tone of someone who’s learned that lesson the expensive way.

They walk another hundred yards before the next anomaly reveals itself; not dramatic, not cinematic. Just a small, precise contradiction.

A single tire track crosses their path. Fresh. Deep. From a vehicle that couldn’t possibly have been there.

Journa14 kneels, touches the imprint. “It’s the same tread as the car at the station.”

Prof88: “But the station’s gone.”

Steamer: “Exactly.”

Prof88: “So what does that mean?”

Steamer: “It means we passed.”

Journa14: “Passed what?”

Steamer: “The test.”

Prof88: “What test?”

Steamer: “The one where you don’t go back.”

He starts walking again, faster now, as if the Zone has just reminded him of a rule he’d forgotten.

Behind them, the tire track fades; not instantly, but gradually, like chalk dissolving in a light drizzle.

Journa14 watches it disappear. “So it wasn’t a mirage.”

Steamer: “Mirages don’t leave advice.”

Prof88: “What advice?”

Steamer: “Keep moving.”

He doesn’t look back. He never does.

 

The desert sand turned to free growing grass, forcing the trio to more or less goose step through it. Then Steamer saw it, straight ahead. He said; “Look,” and his passengers did, without asking; “Where?”

12– The House

The unoccupied house sits alone at the end of a long, thinning tree line; White, symmetrical, colonial bones over recursions, showing original French details overtaken prematurely by the British; the kind of structure that looks like it was built for order and then unceremoniously abandoned by it; like a Goofreads review of a supposedly new and ‘profoundly’ absurd book, which dares the possible critic to be more irrelevant and boringly stupid. The shutters are too straight, the paint too intact, the lawn too neatly trimmed for a place that shouldn't have caretakers; showing the contrivance. It has the stillness of a photograph someone forgot to take, or didn’t deem worthy of taking prior to the net re-duplication of everything, concurrently flattening it to a non-human shape, devoid of any texture; the bot prescribed future.

Inactively non-current, to its proverbial credit and salvation, a rock shell grazes in the foreground, still and indifferent, as if the house has been part of its landscape for decades. That detail is what unsettles the travelers most; the coexistence of the ordinary and the impossible.

Prof88 stops first, not out of fear but because the geometry bothers him. "This place shouldn't be this well preserved," he says, half to himself. "Not out here." He studies the windows like they're equations with missing variables.

Journa14 lifts her camera but doesn't take a picture. "It's posing," she mutters. "Buildings don't pose unless something wants them to." Her instinct is to narrate, but the house resists narration. It's too disinterested in her whims, and is consequently composed.

Steamer is the only one who recognizes the feeling and is mindless toward the external posture with a hint; the Zone's version of required and thereby fake hospitality. "It's waiting," he says. Not ominous; just factual. He adjusts his pocketed pack, already preparing for whatever threshold rules apply here.

They move in a staggered line, not by plan but by temperament. Prof88 veers more than slightly left, wanting an angle on the upper windows. Journa14 wants to appear as having stayed centered, eyes on Prof 88 and the door, as if expecting someone to open it. Steamer walks the perimeter of the lawn first, checking for the subtle distortions he's learned to read; temperature shifts, sound drop-offs, the faint metallic taste that means a fold is nearby.

The still shelled rock doesn't react. It simply keeps chewing.

As they reach the walkway, the air changes; not colder, not warmer, just more deliberate. The house seems to acknowledge them, the way a sentient stage acknowledges non-sentient actors stepping into the light.

The front door is closed but not locked. Steamer tests the knob with the same calm he uses at Zone perimeters. It turns too easily. Inside, the air is still, as if the house has been holding its breath.

Prof88 steps in second, scanning the symmetry. Journa14 enters last, pausing on the threshold long enough to register that the rock has turned its head toward them.

Then the door swings shut behind them; not slammed, not forced, just closed with the quiet authority of a place that has been waiting a long time.

The first thing they make note of is a wall hanging which says;

When competence has

been styled as an affliction

and ineptitude a virtue

any possible defense

against the avaricious

and merciless concerted efforts

of the powers that be

is relegated to the disabilities

of those rendered lame

Have a nice day.

 

The entranceway space feels curated to unsettle. It's not messy, but it's intentional in a way that makes the air feel charged. The wall hanging with its bleak, sardonic message is the centerpiece, but the rest of the entryway reinforces the same tone.

The sign is large enough that you can't pretend you didn't see it. The smiley face at the end is almost mocking.

Steamer stops mid step. His brow tightens, not in confusion but in irritation. "Well that's ..... cheerful." He reads it again, slower this time, and you can almost see him filing it in his Seventies Archive.

Prof88 leans in, fascinated. "Ah. A critique of late stage institutional decay. Charming." He's already analyzing it, probably preparing a lecture no one asked for.

Journa14 snaps a photo before she even reacts verbally. "This is either a manifesto or a cry for help." She's half joking, half cataloguing it as evidence.

At one wall rests a narrow table with a single candle burned halfway down. The wax has dripped over the edge and hardened into a frozen waterfall.

Steamer says; "Fire hazard." He says it flatly, like he's already imagining the insurance paperwork.

Prof88 says; "Symbolic. A slow collapse, unattended." He's delighted by the metaphor.

Journa14 says; "Or someone forgot to blow it out." She's the only one thinking practically.

There is stack of books on the floor, not arranged neatly but seemingly placed deliberately. The titles suggest that the subject matter is about power structures, propaganda, and social psychology; “1984,” “Animal Farm,” “Atlas Shrugged,” “Brave New World,” and “The Handmaid’s Tale.” The latter is open, face down, as if abandoned mid argument.

Steamer says; "This place is trying too hard." He nudges the open book with his foot but doesn't pick it up.

Prof88 crouches to read the spines. "Hmm. Someone with opinions." He sounds almost impressed.

Journa14 says; "Someone who wants us to know they have opinions." She's already forming a narrative.

The group next sees a tall mirror with a crack running diagonally across it. The crack doesn't shatter the reflection, but it distorts it just enough to make anyone standing in front of it look slightly off.

Steamer glances at it and immediately looks away. "Nope."

Prof88 says; "A metaphor for fractured identity. Predictable, but effective."

Journa14 studies her warped reflection. "This house is going to be a story, isn't it." And she's not wrong.

With no commentary about the staircase; effectively ignoring it; Steamer leads them into the adjoining waiting room.

In all fairness to the disregarded staircase, it has a lot of character. The staircase has a traditional, handcrafted look, the kind you'd expect in a cozy cottage or an older, lovingly maintained home. Its design leans toward rustic charm rather than modern minimalism. It is of wooden construction throughout, with a rich, warm finish that highlights the grain, which has over the years acquired a patina, not duplicatable.

Turned balusters, the vertical spindles, give it a classic, decorative feel. The handrail is smooth and polished, suggesting both age and care.

The space beneath the stairs is thoughtfully styled. A woven seat wooden chair sits tucked neatly under the lowest step. A small wooden chest of drawers adds storage and visual balance. On top of the chest are three tall candles in simple holders, adding to the warm, homey atmosphere. A framed picture hangs above the chest, tying the vignette together. A lantern style light fixture hangs from the upper part of the staircase, reinforcing the vintage aesthetic.

The whole scene feels inviting, nostalgic, and intentionally curated. The combination of warm wood tones, soft lighting, and traditional furniture creates a sense of comfort and timelessness.

Stairway to Heaven

 

Led Zeppelin

 

There's a lady who's sure

all that glitters is gold

And she's buying

a stairway to Heaven

 

When she gets there she knows,

if the stores are all closed

With a word she can get

what she came for

 

Ooh, ooh, and she's buying

a stairway to Heaven

There's a sign on the wall,

but she wants to be sure

'Cause you know sometimes words

have two meanings

 

In a tree by the brook,

there's a songbird who sings

Sometimes all of

our thoughts are misgiven

 

Ooh, it makes me wonder

Ooh, makes me wonder

 

There's a feeling I get

when I look to the West

And my spirit

is crying for leaving

 

In my thoughts I have seen

rings of smoke through the trees

And the voices of those

who stand looking

 

Ooh, it makes me wonder

Ooh, really makes me wonder

 

And it's whispered that soon

if we all call the tune

Then the piper

will lead us to reason

 

And a new day will dawn

for those who stand long

And the forests

will echo with laughter

 

Oh-oh-oh-oh-whoa

 

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow,

don't be alarmed now

It's just a spring clean

for the May queen

 

Yes, there are two paths you can go by,

but in the long run

There's still time to change

the road you're on

 

And it makes me wonder

Ohh, whoa

 

Your head is humming, and it won't go,

in case you don't know

The piper's calling you to join him

 

Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow?

And did you know

Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?

 

And as we wind on down the road

Our shadows taller than our soul

There walks a lady we all know

Who shines white light and wants to show

How everything still turns to gold

 

And if you listen very hard

The tune will come to you at last

When all are one, and one is all

To be a rock and not to roll

And she's buying a stairway to Heaven

 

Written by Robert Plant and Jimmy Page