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Fat Trout Chorus Approx. 1600 wds. short story : Michael Lee Smith
Interaction. Virtual Reality. (so what's new?)
Consciousness establishes itself slowly, darkness to soft gray light. From it, out of the shadows, moves something vague. Visual innuendo. As it gets closer I realize it's just the High Priestess of Fate, her skeletal body draped in black leather, her mane frizzed out from her head into a dark mass. Not good. Last time I saw her she was wearing a jester suit and a silly grin. The notorious Ms. F. swaggers through the gleaming bikes with an evil grace, ready to ballet and kick some ass. She offers her hand. I reach out and take it, but you decline. Offer a smug scowl. You must know something I don't. Fate holds my reverence like a wolf with a rabbit; your presence is still secondary. But because I sense (unconsciously?) you share in this already, sense, in fact, you initiated your share of this, I become aware of you and pull you to your feet. You're in for the ride, baby. Like it or not. Consciousness suddenly becomes complete—we're out of place, obviously here as . . . observers. More: I'm here to write the story, and you to read it. Only something got screwed up, somehow time unraveled and re-organized itself. I had been (as I last recall) sitting before my keyboard, staring out the window at the clouds, remembering nights past, nights spent in dangerous places I had no business being, observing. And I'd been pondering, too, with what length of stick should I prod those memories and turn them loose on my imagination. You were observing too. By the look on your face, my story had been completed, published, and was in the midst of being read when you joined me. You're awed yes, but not enough. Unable to suspend disbelief. The scope of this new realm, this new reality, is probably, no, surely difficult for you to imagine. Difficult to anticipate what my story holds for you: something poetic, from an author who only writes when the straightjacket's off—playfully obscure, with you becoming inanimate . . . surreal landscape perhaps. Or a story gray and bleak—your father sleeping with a shadowy figure of vague identity who turns out to be you. Maybe a cute little bedtime story—you'll be the dragon. Who knows? But you're unable to take what might happen seriously. I see that in your face and wince for you, knowing what a cruel playmate Imagination can be. And it's supposed to be so safe. As unwilling guests, we stand in the midst of these shiny chrome machines with sort of an unspoken reverence, as if they are relics of some forgotten pagan rituals. But they're just Harley-Davidsons—relics of more modern pagan rituals. Behind us, through the open doors, blares music, accompanied by the sounds of orgy and chaos—chemically induced murder and ecstasy. Around us, smells of oil dripping onto asphalt, of cooling exhaust pipes, of bare titties, blood, and beer. The fixtures of a biker bar, only we're outside, in the parking lot. Priestess Fate waxes wrath on us with eyes like two boils. If you're like me, or at least the me of my youth, you don't believe in death, but you will if you can hold eye contact. Still holding her hand, I stand wobbly-legged, light headed, even more reverent. Taking it all in. I've been here before. Obviously, you haven't. See in the slowly changing geometry of your face that you just wanted to read about it, eyes dancing over harmless little words printed on paper, or a computer screen, words that are now bringing a new reality. Like somehow your act escapes the scrutiny of Fate’s consequence, you excuse yourself from any moral responsibility in the matter. The exercise. I return the gaze that may or may not have been on Priestess Fate's face. She's not pissed anymore. Eyes no longer boils. Black marbles. She's ready to leave; her job, mine and her job, getting us here, is done. You haven't spoken a single word yet. Still too surprised, I imagine, even though you're trying to hide it. Behind the glibness, way behind, there's this disbelief in your eyes. Disbelief so intense it looks goofy. Just wait. I think we'll find out. Relax. Save your strength. You may need it. Before Priestess Fate splits, she lingers a moment. Glint of light twinkling off the black marbles. Smiles. Smile like a tiger's, digesting a swami. Winks at me. With that, my question's answered, at least. I've tempted Fate. Tempted her by revisiting these places, if only in memories. And perhaps you’ve tempted her, too. Who knows when time will come unglued? When, wherever your imagination or memory are, you suddenly and involuntarily follow? Some scary thought, huh? Pinch myself. But none of it goes away. We're still here. When I get back to looking at the Priestess and telling her I had no intention of tempting her, she's gone. Back to her Bone Room. Excuse me, Bone and Laughter Room. And, I think, because of that, you finally muster the courage to speak. "What's happening?" you mumble. I expected something more eloquent, but then, I haven't written you. You're not part of my story. Or, you weren't. "It's—" I start to say its not real, then it dawns on me that maybe it is. "At least I don't think it's real." What a confident guide. "Of course it's not real," you say, suddenly confident again. One of the motorcycles is kicked to life. It roars with what sounds like protest, but I know it's not, it's simply mechanics and physics, no emotion whatsoever. A Ganja Gypsy staggers by with stars in his gaze, then glides into the open doorway. I wonder if he noticed us. Your eyes follow his appearance and disappearance as if he's something that just stepped out of a spaceship. The roar of the motorcycle, and his appearance, squeezes the life out of your confidence. It withers on your face. "If you can get out of this, go ahead," I say. "Close the book. Leaf to another story." You pantomime doing just that, with your eyes closed. Eyes that register significant surprise when you open them again. You're still here! "Let's just try to make the best of this," I say, glancing to each side. "And see if we can make an inconspicuous escape. We'll sort it out later." Disbelief is no defense here. We're the freaks from another planet—a fact the natives won't question. There's a hand on a rope somewhere near. Attached to a curtain thats ready to rise. You smile. An inaudible whistle in the dark. Shrug. "Nothing bad will happen," you say. "Read plenty of stories like this. Know how it will end." Smug look returns. Pisses me off. "Listen!" I whisper, grabbing your shoulders, motioning toward the darkness. Dangerous voices hovering in the periphery of our senses—we're surrounded by a circle of shadows. I know soon, the shadows will tire of whatever it is they're doing and notice us. At that point, they'll discontinue being shadows. Your eyes widen. You hear it too. The curtain will rise. "You wrote this?" I nod. "Then you write us out." Your voice squeaks. "Just take us back out of here." Now you're convinced. And I’m vindicated. I look around with mock helplessness. "No computer. No tablets. No pencils." Your eyes search the pavement. You bend down and come up with a screw, something that has fallen from one of the motorcycles. Present it to me. I shake my head. "Nothing to write on." You're trembling now, imagining what I know, what you know, what we all know— the limitless of the imagination. "I'll write," you say, pulling the screw back. "You dictate." Close my eyes, meaning to concentrate on how to get us out. As I do, I hear a continuation of what I was hearing before—dangerous mumbling, occasional hoarse laugh, provocations and angry replies—the boys jiving each other. Concentrate harder, squeezing my eyes closed. One sentence. Gimme one sentence. Trout fishing! What could be more serene, and safe. "The stream is icy cold," I recite. Open my eyes. See with horror what you've used as a tablet—the tank of the nearest motorcycle. With the screw you've carved my sentence into the mirrored lacquer finish. Someone shouts. Nocturnal reptile of fear slithers up my spine, tongue flicking in my ear. You too realize what you've done. Eyes radiate the terror of the guilty co-author. But it's too late. Pull you through the maze of machines, fleeing the footfalls and growing roar. Suddenly, you've become an interesting accompaniment to my story—one I shouldn't remember, but never forget. I’m not used to the sound of you—background drone nagging to be foreground. Slows me down, plays hell with my spontaneity. Find myself second guessing at every turn, composing to another's rhythm. Blurt: "Water babbling song of joy?" Wait for your approval. Trout Stream Appears Vaguely. Then you trip on a slippery rock, skin your knee, complain loudly. Trout Stream Fades. Footsteps grow louder behind us, beating yet another rhythm. Close my eyes. Compose the line: "Icy water biting ankles." "Too cold!" you shout. Hot breath of our pursuers return, burning my neck. "Pebbles grinding under foot. Water splashing." Shout: "Read the line! Goddamn it! Believe it!" I keep pulling you, or you keep pushing me, I can't really distinguish. Seems important to distinguish. Into the darkness, receding to light, then back again. Alternating. 'Round and 'round forever, running, fleeing, pushing, pulling, until suddenly you shout: "I believe!" We stop, waist deep in liquid calm. Stop and catch our breathes, lungsful of something like gratitude. Must have been wrong about the ending—just our imaginations, I guess. Something to be feared. And something to fear not challenging. Again, for both of us. Heave and pant and recall the experience; our glances transform to gazes that lock our minds into a parallel realization. What we've experienced is as irresistible as breathing. Frightening as it was, we've both done our jobs. We've created. Made magic. Me from trying, you from believing. Faith in your belief keeps me trying. From the torrents of our minds, our smiles collide into a deafening satisfaction. I cast a fly at a fat trout who's grinning his invitation, and you watch, then join me. Fat trout all around, heads poked out of the water, all grinning with fat trout lips. In unison, via trout chorus, they sing our new ending. Gargle cartoon bubbles with words glowing like neon. You mimic in silence. And never lose your smile.
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