I wish I could say Jerry Lind found the Fortress but I’m not sure. A word of the day but perhaps not this particular day in the late of May. I wish I could say the 27th so I did. Jerry Lind was 2 years old, yet a striking young man with Asian Indian features and with red complexion like an American kind. It’s like he entered The Sphere at New Delhi or thereabouts with its American Indian street names and profuse graffiti and collapsing black hole style garages and then couldn’t find his way back out. It’s that way with the Fortress as well: one door in, no exit. You were one with God. Happy birthday, 2!
“It’s like I couldn’t touch him, he was so damaged with the rain pouring into his head like an inverted sky. He had the circular umbrella unfolded wide, yet the water came and came, shower ON.”
“I’m sorry, W,” I responded. “I know that must have been hard.”
“You don’t know the 1/2 of it. The *1/2* of the 1/2.”
“That must have been 1/4th as hard as I can possibly imagine, then.”
“You said it! Wait, what?”
At 4:13 in the morning, Duncan had something. He sat in a chair in Leemington above Necrotee above Yelloo, high in the sky like (on) a ship or a plane. Pilot Tickie was around, he knew, who wasn’t a bad meanie at all, not any more. He sat with his prescient turtle staring
south east. Duncan was here to talk about the turtle.
But then it wasn’t a turtle any longer. It was a lemon. With legs. And they were staring at 2.
(to be continued)
That night, George dreamed he was with an Asian girl talking about a plane trip to India, and how they’d have to buy tickets soon in order to go before monsoon season. “Rain, continual rain,” the girl spoke to George, making a pattering motion with her fingers against her legs. Her red sneakered feet fidgeted back and forth upon a red circle on a red block of lego, with a red plane in the bookcase behind pointing to it all. Her rear end sat on green. George sprawled out on blue. “Yelloo!” yelled an old yellow guy on the lego bed beyond.
“Don’t listen to him, George,” requested Alysha the Asian kid. “He’s just an old man with nothing to say.” George didn’t think so. George woke up.
“Duncan?” George spoke over to his guardian on the other bed of their darkened apartment.
Duncan says, “yes?” nonchalantly without raising his head or opening his eyes. He had been unable to sleep ever since George told him the news about the spirits in the PCH woods. “I *saw* them,” he repeats at the time, hands on hips. Duncan was actually starting to believe the youth. And that damn Good Neighbor pylon. They know about The Diagonal, the thing he was suppose to protect and serve above all else! Besides George, of course.
“Had a dream. You said I was suppose to tell you about my dreams, at least for a while.”
“The forest,” spoke Duncan, understanding. He figured the woods and accompanying spirits, if real — and they appeared to be — would start to dominate George’s nights as well as days. Could he request he didn’t go back to the forest? Did he even have that authority now? As an inducted member of Pot-D, he had an obligation to protect The Diagonal. Protector of The Diagonal: Pot-D. But George was too, and just because George was a boy…
“‘Yelloo’,” George interrupted Duncan’s reverie. “The man in the dream said ‘yelloo’, just like your guy in the game.”
Duncan rolled over, sat up, stared. They were in for a long night. Better put on some coffee.
(to be continued)