God Only Knows
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
I've wanted to meet Felicia since I saw her. A glamour shot in a glossy fetish magazine. Slick leather, black, covered her mouth gagging her like a winter scarf. The rest of her body was contained in tight belts. Zebra marks on her smooth skin. Her eyes were delicious. Apple sized and bulbous, they threatened to escape from her skull. An anime girl brought to life. In one of the photos, my favourite, a bald man with metal hands licked her eyeballs with his tongue. Toad long, split in two at the end, snakish. The write up mentioned that her eyes had halucinogenic properties. She cried LSD tears. I googled her name and discovered her website. It was an extention of the magazine. She naked, cruxified to power lines with electrical stigmata. Stump armed men massaging her back with smelly pink lotion. Finned mermen swimming around them, trailed with seahorse eggs. Glorious. I paid my fifty quid for perfered membership and downloaded an ocean's worth of content. I wanted to meet her and I asked her how I could do so. She told me that if I wanted to meet, I'd have to find her. She told me that she was Shangrila. A coveted golden land explorers longed for. A challenge. I accepted. I dug through the site like an archeologist detective, sifting through video, audio files. What I needed most was an olfactory file, a new file type offered to scent fiends on smell fetish sites. Hidden deep, encrypted with a googleplex password I found it. I connected my deepwire to the B: drive and began to download. An audible ding and days later, the wire glowed red. Download complete. I took the wire to the queen's room. It was time to make some bees. I sampled her scent: sweaty leather, lemon soap and handwashed blue jeans. I programmed the maker with Felicia's biometrics, instructing the bees to find her. They would harvest her location like polen and make information honey. I sent out the bees. An old age king waiting for his carier pigeons.
Weeks later, they returned, carrying invisible packages of fleshy bits. Dandruff, hair folicles, microscopic nail clipping. The abandoned snake skin of her body. To their combs they went creating their strange honey. Dead skin yellow instead of lustrious gold. I hungrily ate the honey and waited for the information to congel in my brain. It comes slowly, like a fog on a river. Shapeless ideas and half formed sights and smells. Like an alcoholic buzz in reverse, the image of her location calcified in my brain, becoming stronger and stronger. Blocks of salt, twisted knots of trees and saphire waterfalls. And then there she was. Beautiful, lounging on an a Victorian sofa surrounded by doors of differing shapes and sizes. Ten in total. She diligently worked on her fingernails, sculping them into intricate shapes. Keys. Her hair flowed like a basket of snakes, writhering with enough life that suggested that she had an electrical generator brain. She stuck her finger into a door and twisted, and it opened with a sound that sounded like a mixture of a slurp and a kitchen vent. In front of her was a vortex with the consistency of oatmael, sticky and thick. She stepped into it, swallowed by the liquid and my senses were overwhelmed with the sensation of drowning in a deep ocean of carpet.
She wasn't going to make it easy for me. That's why I loved her.
I've wanted to meet Felicia since I saw her. A glamour shot in a glossy fetish magazine. Slick leather, black, covered her mouth gagging her like a winter scarf. The rest of her body was contained in tight belts. Zebra marks on her smooth skin. Her eyes were delicious. Apple sized and bulbous, they threatened to escape from her skull. An anime girl brought to life. In one of the photos, my favourite, a bald man with metal hands licked her eyeballs with his tongue. Toad long, split in two at the end, snakish. The write up mentioned that her eyes had halucinogenic properties. She cried LSD tears. I googled her name and discovered her website. It was an extention of the magazine. She naked, cruxified to power lines with electrical stigmata. Stump armed men massaging her back with smelly pink lotion. Finned mermen swimming around them, trailed with seahorse eggs. Glorious. I paid my fifty quid for perfered membership and downloaded an ocean's worth of content. I wanted to meet her and I asked her how I could do so. She told me that if I wanted to meet, I'd have to find her. She told me that she was Shangrila. A coveted golden land explorers longed for. A challenge. I accepted. I dug through the site like an archeologist detective, sifting through video, audio files. What I needed most was an olfactory file, a new file type offered to scent fiends on smell fetish sites. Hidden deep, encrypted with a googleplex password I found it. I connected my deepwire to the B: drive and began to download. An audible ding and days later, the wire glowed red. Download complete. I took the wire to the queen's room. It was time to make some bees. I sampled her scent: sweaty leather, lemon soap and handwashed blue jeans. I programmed the maker with Felicia's biometrics, instructing the bees to find her. They would harvest her location like polen and make information honey. I sent out the bees. An old age king waiting for his carier pigeons.
Weeks later, they returned, carrying invisible packages of fleshy bits. Dandruff, hair folicles, microscopic nail clipping. The abandoned snake skin of her body. To their combs they went creating their strange honey. Dead skin yellow instead of lustrious gold. I hungrily ate the honey and waited for the information to congel in my brain. It comes slowly, like a fog on a river. Shapeless ideas and half formed sights and smells. Like an alcoholic buzz in reverse, the image of her location calcified in my brain, becoming stronger and stronger. Blocks of salt, twisted knots of trees and saphire waterfalls. And then there she was. Beautiful, lounging on an a Victorian sofa surrounded by doors of differing shapes and sizes. Ten in total. She diligently worked on her fingernails, sculping them into intricate shapes. Keys. Her hair flowed like a basket of snakes, writhering with enough life that suggested that she had an electrical generator brain. She stuck her finger into a door and twisted, and it opened with a sound that sounded like a mixture of a slurp and a kitchen vent. In front of her was a vortex with the consistency of oatmael, sticky and thick. She stepped into it, swallowed by the liquid and my senses were overwhelmed with the sensation of drowning in a deep ocean of carpet.
She wasn't going to make it easy for me. That's why I loved her.
posted by Rob at 4:42 a.m.
2 comments
