Category: writing

If he looked very carefully, he could make out the tops of mountains nestled in the pillows of clouds. From time to time, birds would cross his field of view, rising and falling in the sea breeze. He breathed the heavy scent of salt and seaweed, and as his legs were becoming numb with cold, he wondered if he should be standing thigh-deep in the shallows.

Every once in a while, a larger wave crested and splashed over his hips, each one sending a shock of cold up his spine. No, he probably shouldn’t stand here anymore. He had stopped at the water’s edge to look at the view. Over the course of an hour or two (or was it three?) the water surrounded him and climbed steadily up the beach until now the largest of the waves threatened to knock him over.

But he’d stood his ground. Instead, he watched the clouds over the mountains on the horizon. Like the waves, the clouds flowed around and over the peaks and into valleys, swirling and cresting. It was a river in the air, moving too slowly to see with the naked eye. He kept his gaze fixed on a point in the clouds, though, and observed how that point would slide inexorably from left to right across the range.

Something nibbled at his toes. It was time to leave. He turned his back to the river of clouds and waded back to the now-distant shore, where cyclists and rollerbladers whizzed left and right endlessly. When he stood on solid ground, he paused to consider where he might go next. Just then, a woman, sitting awkwardly on a lawn nearby, lifted a book to hide her face. “I, ROBOT” the title proclaimed in gold embossed letters on a faux-leather binding.

“Asimov,” he muttered. “Always with the Asimov.” He turned left, then right, then left again, and made for the bridge. Maybe he’d sit on the bridge for a while.

Nick leaned heavily on his shovel to catch his breath. How long had he been at this? Several hours at least, he thought.

Beneath his feet and around him to his waist, raw, heavy soil oozed a grey liquid and already he was ankle-deep in the brackish water. He’d have to finish quickly or his newly-created hole would fill completely.

What was a hole? Was he really making anything at all or creating the absence of something? He wasn’t so much digging a hole, as he was relocating matter. Nothing was being created or destroyed. Only hours ago, this spot contained dirt. Then it contained air. In time, it would contain water. And when he was done, it would again contain dirt… and something else.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and let his thoughts drift. Not long now, he thought, and swayed gently as a breeze shushed through the overhanging trees, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass. Eyes shut, he became aware of the sounds of the world beyond his hole. Yes, there was hush of trees in the wind. And a car passing on the empty street. A dog barked two yards away, and even farther in the distance, a lawnmower droned.

This, he thought, is what the world sounds like inside a hole in my lawn, and nobody on the face of the earth has ever listened to the world from a hole in my lawn before. He breathed a deep, satisfied sigh.

Presently, footsteps approached on the road, and Nick opened his eyes. Above him stood a man in ragged clothes, watching him carefully. His look was intense, nervous, and he appeared to have a damp spot in an embarassing spot on his faded jeans.

“Asimov,” the man intoned, then turned to continue up the hill, singing something about shrimp cocktail.

Nick blinked, then shrugged it off. Back to work, he pulled on the canvas sack at the edge and it slid wetly to his feet. Just relocating matter.

“Excuse me for being blunt,” Deb said pointedly, “but you have completely missed my point.”

The words hung over table for a moment, as the waiter stopped by and collected the now-empty plates. In the dim background, the occasional clink of dishes floated on a gentle murmer of conversation. James examined Deb’s face carefully for a sign of humour, but found none. Once again, he realized, he’d have to endure one of her condescending rants about some arcane geek topic.

Deb took a sip of water, and began. “When you create a simulated world, the first thing you do is establish a maximum level of detail. Look around you,” she gestured expansively, and James felt obliged to do what he was told.

“What do you see?” Deb asked him.

James considered not answering. After all, there could be no correct answer, but to not play along would sour the mood, so he responded. “Well, I see a restaurant. People eating. Talking. Plates of food. Drinks–”

“Yes, yes,” Deb cut him off quickly. “That’s the obvious stuff. Now look closer. At this candle, for example.” James complied. “See the way it flickers? And the imperfections in the glass? And closer still, do you see the tiny ripples of wax?”

Confused, James answered, “Yes. It’s very pretty.”

Deb let out an irritated sigh. “No. Well, yes, it’s pretty, but more importantly it’s infinitely detailed. We are surrounded by infinite detail. You can look as closely as you like, and there’s still more detail to be seen. You can’t do that with a computer.

“When you create a simulation,” she continued, “you have to establish a maximum level of realism. Okay, now look at that woman walking past out the window.”

James looked. “The one walking and reading?”

Deb nodded, “One of her feet is obviously larger than the other. If I created a computer model of a person and one foot was larger than the other, people would think that I made a mistake.”

“You know,” James pointed out, “she really shouldn’t wear sandals. That’s nasty.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t bother her,” Deb shrugged, then popped another shrimp in her mouth. “But she should try some conditioner. Her hair is totally limp. Want another?” she gestured to her shrimp cocktail.

Theresa shifted restlessly on the short-cropped grass. There was a position — that elusive, perfect reading position that required the least amount of energy to hold her novel in front of her eyes. Beyond the pages of the book, out of focus, people passed to and fro and frolicked with their dogs and children, and at the far end of the park, where the manicured lawn edged the cut rock of the seawall’s bike path, an endless stream of cyclists and rollerbladers swished past the slower moving foot traffic.

The grass beneath her hadn’t quite dried from the rain the night before, and the damp began to seep into her clothes on the seat of her pants, and on her elbows where she’d leaned to prop the book up just so. It was a distraction. A minor one, like the seagulls who loitered nearby in case she might throw a scrap of food to fight over, like a french fry or a piece of bread, or maybe something especially nice, like a chunk of battered cod from the fish-and-chips stand.

Her left foot itched. What was it about her left foot that made it itch? This thought pulled her from the printed words, and she gazed thoughtfully at the offending body part. Was it also, she wondered, actually a full inch longer than her right foot?

And was it reasonable for her to dislike sandals for that very reason?

She slipped her left foot under the protective cover of her right leg, and the unexpected movement startled a nearby seagull into crying out for help. Presently it realized its mistake and stopped.

Theresa closed her book, put on her round glasses, and gazed into the distance. There stood a man that she recognized from the day before. In the bookstore, he had peed himself then touched her hair. She tried to look inconspicuous and he moved on without noticing her.

At first, he thought it was a large piece of furniture, but on closer inspection it was, in fact, the collected works of Isaac Asimov. He stood dead still in a spreading pool of his own making and pondered the significance of an entire bookshelf dedicated to a single writer. These books, he noticed, were larger and weightier than the books of any other single writer in the bookshop.

Behind him from the near the cashier, he heard hushed whispers, and although he didn’t turn to look, he knew he was again the object of undue attention. He tried to look casual. He ran his fingers through limp hair, which prompted a startled yelp from the woman to whom it belonged.

An explanation was in order. “Asimov,” he said, but as usual, his words didn’t quite encompass the complexity of the situation. The woman, now clutching books close to her chest, retreated to the cashier and joined the small cluster of customers who furiously ignored his presence.

He returned his gaze to the bookshelf. Hello, Isaac.

Had he said that aloud? Maybe he did, but he couldn’t tell.

Asimov was there. All of him, in twenty thick-bound, faux-leather volumes. If this was Asimov, he considered, where was Atwood? Shouldn’t she and he sit side-by-side?

As he thought, a tune crept into his consciousness and eventually began to escape his lips. Bolero, maybe, but the words seemed to be about shrimp cocktail, which didn’t seem right.

No, he decided finally. No, Atwood would not sit with Asimov. Atwood belonged with the high-brow clique of the Literature shelves. Asimov belonged with the space ships and unicorns, which seemed to him a terrible place for the man to end up, after a long and industrious career. Here was a great science and science-fiction writer, banished to the company of unicorns, goblins, and three-headed space aliens.

Perhaps he’d grow large sideburns. Yes. Yes, sideburns would be the correct thing to do.

With these thoughts settled, he turned away from the Asimovian edifice and made a trail of wet footprints to the door. As the shop’s door closed behind him, he noticed the bell.

All clear, he thought. All clear. And he turned right at a perfect ninety-degree angle and started uphill to the the library.