United States of America

Nicolas P. Evans is an ambitious 17-year-old who fell in love with writing via interests in theatre. Writing, now, poetry, short stories, a novel and a musical, he plans to spend his upcoming years in college perfecting and honing his craft.

Message from Writer

Hey all! Please, please, please feel free to comment and suggest edits. I am, like most of you, writing so that someone can read; let me know, as a fellow writer and audience member, what you would like to see more of or what you think I can do better. I will be sure to return the favor (if you would like). Thank you! Can't wait to read from you.

Into the Ether

December 8, 2019


    She walked, slowly, toward her chair -- her comfortable one. She sat slowly down into it, sinking. There was a thing on her front folding table. She opened it up: it buzzed, and it whirred, and it purred. She ran her fingers over the scales on its smooth, metal skin, and it purred even louder at the sensation of touch. It blinked open its eyes -- perhaps it winked at her, even -- and cast a hazy, dim-bright glow upon her wizened countenance. She basked uncomfortably in its light, alone. Her eyes took their time in adjusting. It was dark in her house, and that light filled the room; her only company consisted of that. She adjusted her back pillow, put on her glasses -- well, of course, she had to find them first -- and, when she was ready: woke up the beast.
    She waited patiently, unmoving, until it could fully thaw from unconsciousness; it had been hibernating for quite some time. Its body still ached with slumber: it yawned, and it moaned, and it groaned. She gazed down deep into the cryptic, enigmatic kind of creature lying there before her, resting stoic on its perch, the front folding table; she peered down deep into its soul, one that was entirely distant and foreign to her, almost archaic despite its being brand new, and let her cautious nails fall semi-aimlessly alongside its exoskeleton -- matte, pristine -- each vertebrae muttering softly to itself the small gossips weathered ears are with time tuned against: until her fingertips were at the very underbelly. A silver plate was at her palm, then. It was a hard and chiseled plane through which, apparently, they had said, she could communicate with the organism via physical interaction -- and only this. It, they had told her, was monolingual in this way, as it understood only the most raw and primitive nuances of human viscera: physic, and touch. She adjusted her back pillow and leaned closely in. She moved slowly her forefinger, like an old leather stylus or her favorite fountain pen, across its cold and armoured chestpiece. And, upon this, and to her surprise, it, quickly, with one swift jolt of power and presence, responded to her:
    Pupils widened, then, alert, aware, it begged a due request: for food. But not of what one might normally expect of an animal -- no! These were the electronic pangs of a roaring, rampant kind of hunger that lusted solely for the somethings of symbol, of digit, of equation -- of math. Its veins seemed to cramp, and yearn, and crave the streaming, green torrents of a more formulaic form of nutrition that, too, can be fed through the fingers: one of arithmetic, hieroglyph, concept, geometry: math. Her phalanges cracked at the scales.  . . or, perhaps, they were teeth. Yes; they must have been teeth! for they were sturdy in the black-basined gums of a shadow-mouthed thing that, surely, was quick to the byte; she made careful: The thin, rigid plaque (which seemed to spell letters) spaced itself out evenly across the boxy enamels on which it resided, so this is what she had decided to be useful, instead of receptors engraved there in the abdomen.




    It munched on the number-crumbs she gave it, digesting, quickly, the bits of protein within them. She shifted nervously in her chair and moved again into her back pillow -- it just did not seem she could get it situated this evening -- and for a brief moment, lifted her eyes away from the distracted sentience that was still there on its perch, and unto the remaining depths of her house, of her home. She saw it was dark -- though, granted, it was blacker now in juxtaposition than to what her sights had been previously trained. She let the darkness envelop her mind a while, savoring the nonevent before it would again be ripped from her and thrown right back to the entity that, for a few moments, would struggle to swallow the numeral-alphabet trail mix it had been tossed. But, sure enough, it was barking new brightnesses within the minute, and her attentions were, once again, snared.
    Its eyes met sharply the lenses of her glasses on which already they had stained intense glare, and projected fresh theme onto the back color cones of her eyeballs. Of course, they could only do so after trespassing rudely the weary retinas that shrivelled and stung from similar offenses over years prior. She squinted. Her eyes took their time in adjusting once more to the brutal violences of light. Her coarse-wrinkled hands groped blindly those scales, those teeth, searching desperate for some device that could spare her from such scalding illuminant. But in this endeavor she had only further polluted the beast’s eyes; they were cloudy then; she must have cued accidentally some trigger: Multitudinous flares of non-sequitur notion blotted out what once was blank, what once was placid; it bucked: it writhed, and it squirmed, and it wormed. She went back to the abdomen -- it would be of no use. She went back to the scales -- they would be of no use. And she found, then, the teeth turned to fang. They dripped vile with poisons: each attempt fusing better the toxins to the old, calloused pads of her fingers. It coiled, and hissed at her. It wanted more food, so she gave all she had. But with trembling hands, she had flung, perhaps, extra characters: and the equations were unbalanced. The beast clamped down its jaws. And with big, beady eyes, it had flashed there before her: LOCKED OUT. She was stranded. It desired no longer her presence. She knew not what to do. She tried once more with food. It flashed once more: LOCKED OUT. LOCKED OUT. LOCKED OUT. 
    And she began to feel those venoms in her blood.
    A corrupt and virulent wave was crashing hot against her thoughts. An ocean stirred, high tide, the shore into the sea; it stung her brains, those salty brines, those battered sands: erosion reigned. Erosion, not just of nature and Time, but of mind and of matter, bore firmly its hooks. She crumbled, like rocks -- like pebbles, and rocks beneath the blue: small, ancient shells beneath the mass of passing swells just out of reach, just out of reach. She was drowning in this, in worlds just out of reach. Its sands were lodged between her clothes, into her eyes, within the crevacess of her chair: She adjusted her back pillow. She adjusted her back pillow. She adjusted her back pillow. She threw away the back pillow, and it fell with a pathetic thud against the floor. She wanted it back, but was just out of reach, just out of reach. She drowned there without it. Her corpse eroded away, piece by piece: bit by bit.  . .
    And her bills were, once again, overdue.


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