Ideamine

Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
Miniscule specter vultures orbit our thought aura, the unseen sticky storm mess of ideas, searching for paradigm fetuses. Through their cholesteral eyes they see them, the larva of half formed thoughts, smelling of New. On silver specled wings they descend with the precision of a brain surgeons' scalple and bursts through the placenta of the aura. The beak, curved like an ancient sword, swallows the thought-form. The vulture flies out again, curving through electrical charged brainstorms and tsunami waves of amnesia to it's ultimate destination, the ideamine.

The paradigm fetus doesn't wither inside the vulture's beak. Its umbilicle finds leech mouthed holes on the tongue and burrows deep, sucking ghost meat and blood. The fetus will survive. The vulture follows the phermonal scent of the ideamine and moves into a razorwind channel. Oil feathers smoke, smelling like burned glass. Scenery changes. Powder blue skies are replaced with the ruffled blanket curve of the blood dome. The air sounds different here. Chalk board screams instead of the whisper of ghosts. Potched in stereo mountain like an acne scar is the ideamine. Glass moles expande the mine in decades long slow-motion. Deeper inside is the Vatican Without Light where the Calculus Pope waits for his birds. The vulture lands on the coal cobbled floor and desposits the fetus in the hands on a needle eyed monk. The Calculus Pope rewards the animal with mole charion and ushers the monk to the monestary.

The monk's lips are sewn shut, years old scabs covering the thin steel stitches. The Pope asks them to take a vow of celebacy. They are verbal eunuch. Curving through tunnels smelling of mole shit and methane, find their way to the library. There through the glittering reflection of incubating diamonds, the Pope performs the Sacrament of Whispers. The fetus evaporates into brown smolder and His Creepiness applies the ashes to the monk's ears.
"Hear what has been unthought," he tells the monk, "And capture it in stone." A sliver of enlightment for the monk. The idea is chisled into the stone in a mathematical language known only to the order. Sheet music for ideas. The Pope leaves the monk to toil away at his thankless work. He returns to the tower and waits another another vulture, contented that the Status Quo has been maintained for another day.