Games

An Autobiography of Your Time Spent in Quarantine…

Eerie emerald casts a gentle glow down the aisles of the grocery store. Your eyes catch glimpses of Hot Cheetos, loaves of Wonder bread, blurry-labeled cans of food haunted by shadows that soften crisp edges of plastic packaging and dim the market research-based colors chosen by businessmen with ill intention. Cool shades of translucent blue spill out beneath the humming refrigerators lining the back wall, jugs of cow’s milk are packed densely along the first row of the fridge, plant-based milks are sparsely grouped along the remaining nearly barren shelves. Your heavy eyelids blink as you attempt to process the surreal sight, perhaps it’s due to the loopy fatigue that clings to 2 am, but you can’t seem to remember the last time you’ve seen cows milk. Most cows live in zoos or remain as loyal house-pets on homesteads along the wealthier parts of the coasts, and the occasional average American is able to adopt a calf as long as they are government employees. Rubbing your eyes as you adjust to the nostalgic glow,

You find yourself gravitating towards the refrigerators along the back wall, you’re already imagining yourself breaking the crimson seal of the plastic jug, you wonder if cows milk still retains the toxicity your grandmother claims it does. Magazines from long ago depicted models bathing in the opaque pearl with delicate flowers floating in the tub and candles lining the glamor shot, you wonder if it is as silky and aesthetically pleasing as it appears and if it holds any value on the beauty black market…

You are startled by a quiet shuffle in the candy aisle barely disrupting the static buzz in the air and the gentle hum of the refrigerators.

Cautiously approaching the candy aisle, your heavy footfalls are muffled by your creeping anxiety mindfully guiding your sturdy black boots one step at a time. The hair rising along the surface of your skin almost immediately settles once your gaze meets the curious eyes of a tiny creature.

You pull out a cloth sack and snatch the little fellow before he has any time to react. His green skin and googly eyes are an adorable sight and you know plenty of scientists who would love to study a Thimbleman, who knows, maybe along the way you can strike a deal with your government to pay a large sum for the grotesque creature. Who cares if he has a soul, you certainly don’t and there’s no reason not to give in to your urge to murder such an inferior being. Besides, if you don’t go for the kill, he might (there isn’t much research archived in creature libraries on the Thimblefolk).

You smile and introduce yourself. His gap-toothed smile brings out the wisdom seeped in his tea-colored eyes, he says his name is Frank and you remember the days of your time spent at Educational Confinement where you met a psychology teacher by the same name, except he didn’t munch on grass the way that the Thimblefolk creature do, instead he was often seen munching on the carcasses of animals in the form of sandwiches between classes.

After providing an overview of the reason you are dwelling in an abandoned grocery store past curfew, Frank the Thimbleman reveals he is a master of religious studies. Dropping the backpack slung across your shoulders, you sit on it and Frank hobbles over in his long plum silk robe with his tousled ivory hair to speak more about these ancient beliefs.

You walk over to the store’s radio to release a comforting melodramatic tune to make you forget the world outside exists and drown out the occasional flare of sirens in the empty night. The melody grows until the floors begin to tremble and veins of greenery blossom, cracking the tiles and reaching out to wrap around you as Frank stands above reminding you your fate has arrived and his three-fingered hands gently wave a farewell as his ears begin to glow cerulean with sadness though his eyes remain ambivalent…

You listen to Frank tell you about days when religion wasn’t practiced behind closed doors and those not abiding to particular systems still expressed ideas of spirituality and recognized the human soul, days when humanity didn’t look like virtual superficial discussions about koi fish and human idols, he reminds you hope once existed in the open and blood didn’t trickle down faucets every now and then.

Pulling out square pieces of marbled cake, you offer Frank a slice as you pour out tea from your thermos. You observe in silence as your environment pools into a puddle of paint, it’s time for you to fall into another external setting as your state of mind changes, barely having time to catch Frank’s understanding smile and empathetic eyes as your shaking hands attempt to wave goodbye. Whenever your state of mind morphs into a different emotional setting, your physiology abides to the universal law imposed upon you, your environment swirls and your physical being is transported to a different setting. You are the universal messenger afterall, your mission has never been stated nor will it ever be, but you are meant to document these moments in forms of art as evidence for a grand plan and life purpose you have yet to understand.

Landing in a garden of moss, the beginnings of content you felt from your discussion with the Thimbleman dissipate as the sensation of stifled panic nudges the organs in your chest and abdomen. Pulling out your journal, you scribble the contents of your experience with the Thimbleman and record a quick reminder on your camera to contact Frank the Thimbleman once you arrive home to begin pulling the pieces into the grand puzzle gifted from the universe.

Standing up, you recognize the cloudy sky and angry scent of lavender in the air.

You head towards the moss-covered cottage shadowed by the colossal red mushroom. The home of a man you once knew, you recall the chubby face of your brother and the promise he will never go back to life in the Shruburbs, so you wipe away your frustrated tears of grief of the promise you made to your mother to protect him from life of isolation and stride towards the bright yellow door to yell at him for breaking his word.

You laugh so hard you cry, and cry so hard you laugh… nothing seems to matter anymore but you recognize the crisp aquamarine eyes of the white tiger. It’s your brother, a Morphist, and the cub clinging to his tail is your niece. You run to greet them, the small smile your brother holds reveals he may have an answer to contribute to this growing madness.

Your niece’s canines force you to hold back a grimace as she leaps to give you a hug. You mirror her joyful expression until the blood circulating your body runs glacial as the fog untethered from your mind and you come to the sudden realization you don’t have a brother or a niece…

Stepping back from the predatory gazes of the tigers and away from the surrounding chill, you make a dash for the cottage beneath the red mushroom you spotted earlier. Your feet slip against the moss-covered earth and just as the tigers gain momentum and you feel a tendril of hair entwine with the breeze they generate, a purple creature erupts from the earth and you feel its palm slip into yours.

You are pulled through a portal that shuts as soon as you and the creature are locked in, leaving behind the tigers. Streaks of light emulating sensations of watercolor paint blur past and the scent of sunflowers swirls around you both as you continue to descend down the spiral to the tune of Myth by The Beach House.

The purple creature teleports you both into a cloud of cotton candy.

Glancing around, you find that you are in a bakery. Everything ranges in color from petal pink to soft rose. The dizzying height of the ceiling is held by sparkling pillars, engraved into the base of each pillar is the name Doja Cat. Turning your attention to the purple creature that saved you,

You bake him into a cake, the fumes have long since infiltrated your olfactory bulb and attacked the feathering strings of rationality in your brain. Succumb to the madness as your mind flickers through that episode of The Magic School Bus where Ms.Frizzle and her class is baked into a cake.

You name him Jumo, with one amethyst eye and a single strand of hair tied up, the three-legged creature resembles a chubby baby alien and you can’t help but think he’ll be the perfect sidekick.

Frosting a giant cake in the center of the bakery, your eyelids drift shut and suddenly you awake to find you’re in your bed again. Turning to squint at the alarm clock besides your bed, you see it’s 4am. Jumo curls up on your dresser, using a fur coat as a blanket. Sighing, you sink further into your pillow, deciding you’ll attempt to make sense of the world tomorrow.

Jumo turns up “Gary’s Song” from the Spongebob album playing on your record player and you smile because nothing truly matters.

You put a face mask on as you lie in your fluffy covers, your grandmother’s prophetic dreams conspire an orange man will trigger the beginning of the end of the world. Maybe you’re here to save the world or maybe you’re here to ease the pain of the vulnerable and the pure, holding their hand, as you wade into the high waters and sink into the void of ambiguous alleged nothingness.

So, listen to your sad songs, honey. The world was never meant to feel “right” all the time and nothing is supposed to stay okay, permeance is prison and change is chaos. You’ll be more than fine.

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