Have you ever lost a few hours? Ever woken up to find a day has passed of which you remember nothing? Sometimes stories are heard of someone acting completely out of character who then denies the whole thing when they return to their senses.
My kind are to blame for many of those stories. Our existence is a curse. We get only a day in each body before we have to move on. Childhood is too short a blessing for us. Childhood is the only time we get to relax in one form for more than twenty four hours. Getting ejected from that first shell is just the first of a daily cycle of possession.
I have a watch that I pass between my hosts. I reset the countdown each time I leave a confused shell for a new one. The novelty of change wears thin in no time at all. It’s hard to keep track of others. My mum lost track of my father and I while I was just a baby.
As the first of our many sins we must steal our children from the fleshy hosts who’s bodies begot them. My parents had to live with the guilt of knowing that the two bodies they possessed would grieve the loss of a child that was never theirs.
I look for the exchange of watches everywhere. Every blank stare might be a sign that one of my kind is nearby, that I might escape this solitary existence. We live our lives running. Nothing but the long shadow of death is chasing us. If we stay longer than a day we’re stuck and not much later we die. My father ran out of time in solitary confinement for the crimes of his host. At least the guilt of that hosts death haunted the warders. My actions in their body expressed my revenge, I probably took things too far.
Without my mother and father I’ve been alone for years. I want to end this sometimes, my life seems futile and selfish. To exist I screw with other peoples lives. If I die though I take them with me. If I kill myself in their body we both die and if I stay too long and get stuck my death destroys their mind rendering them brain dead. As much as this existence seems pointless sometimes I could never kill another through my own fatalism. I’m stuck with this until I make the last mistake or I find a way out.
How did we come into being? How would creatures evolve into us? We burn each bridge we cross never to return to that last home. My only constant possession is my watch which rarely fits me and I’m always counting down the hours remaining until I have to leave. The only real knowledge I have of what I am is the word wisp. In research I’ve read that wisps are ethereal forces of nature. So far so true. Books also say that wisps are the vapours of life itself which in some places makes sense. In others the idea contradicts everything about our cursed existence. If we are such powerful forces of life then why do we die if we remain in one body for more than one day?
We live like parasites travelling from host to host. I feel like a germ being spread by handshakes and wonder sometimes if my life is bound to the watch. My father gave it to me. The first present I ever received. The only present I kept after I was seven, after my first swap. The first swap always happens around the seventh year my dad told me, by then every cell has been remade and the ties to that body are gone. No other body is ever so compatible and each bridge will be burnt as it’s crossed. I will never be at peace, never be home at last. I rent each day of a life I cannot afford. There’s a poem that sums it up which I believe a wisp must have written;
We live for just one moment at a time,
For today this moment’s mine,
My new eyes see the world each day,
And then they blink and I move on,
And like the moment I am gone.
It could be interpreted as upbeat but I think that instead of telling us to embrace the moment the poem reminds us that we are trapped in it feebly searching for the next. In a similar way when we leave the first shell we leave an entirely new creature to look upon the world. I took seven years of memories with me when I left that body. First shells can actually live normal lives if they can catch up on some of those lost years of learning. They pick up knowledge must faster the second time around. My father left my first shell to its blood relatives with a note;
This child is no longer my son but yours, love him as I do. The empty shell sat outside the door like a baby in a basket and was warmly embraced by both parents who had since then brought other children into the world. The shell is still considered slow but has embraced the new life well. He is the only comfort I have when I’m down. I know that despite the heartache caused when my parents stole that body from the hospital with me inside they tore a deep wound into that couple which they did their best to mend. It seems that the hollow child they received from my father did more to heal those wounds than anything else ever could. I like seeing them together. My old shell holding the hand of one of those two happy creatures. He seems calm, relaxed. He has all the time in the world. If only we were all so lucky.
Books are my fraying lifeline in the endless search for a conclusion to my condition. I have to find a way to break the endless cycle I’m trapped in. My life is contradictory, I only age in mind while I wander between minds. I am an immortal parasite. Its been so long since I lost my father to this curse, longer since we lost my mother in the essential trade of forms. I’ve lived on the edge of endless lives, treading the borders of my hosts social contacts. I want what they take for granted. I want peace, a body of my own.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Blog 25: Activated
Whether I was dead or merely dreaming until that moment I’m not sure. I drew my first breath and woke from a nightmare I’d thought at worst a bearable dream.
I could always run and jump but now I had to. The barriers of apathy and doubt had been pulverised into the foundation of my new road in life. I had to run. I ran, waiting for the pain that usually stopped me too quickly. The pain took much longer to arrive than before and when it did, as bad as it was, I could bear it. The second wall loomed in the distance. I’d run through the pain barrier before into a void of numb disorientation which like the pain came later and was likewise more manageable. I’d run round half the city before my legs gave out as the pain flashed to blackout levels. On my knees in the mud with on looking civilians I took in the new spectrum of thoughts pulsing between neurons in my brain. I knew I could do more. My body would acclimatise to vast improvements in pace and stamina as I ran. The pain was dissipating quickly, only more thoughts joined the throng that now populated my mind. I could walk again, with muddy knees and jog again which became a run. I ran the full loop of the city, vaulting walls and railings with ever greater ease. Anything that might have seemed hard became easy and obvious. Small crowds drew together to watch me climbing trees on a whim and leaping and swinging from branch to branch.
I took in all the colours in more detail than before and they seemed more numerous and varying. I heard the rush of wind and distant cars as I ran, more slowly back home.
At home, after changing from the muddy clothes, I sat on the couch with my near empty sketchbook and drew endlessly in fine detail, what I’d seen on the run. My recall was perfect visually, photorealistic drawings came together in HB pencil on the paper. Half finished ideas surfaced as images I’d toyed with for a long while. Those images collected themselves and came into focus. I poured my dreams and delusions onto those pages and in but two hours I’d half filled the sketchbook.
I cooked myself a good meal with everything I’d never used in the kitchen cupboard. My invigoration only grew as I fuelled myself. I had some large paper hidden in my room that I dug out. I kicked all objects out of my way for enough space on the living room floor and began to draw and paint out one of my most ambitious works to date. I laboured over the detail for hours. A warped forest full of mirrors took me two and a half hours to draw and most of the night to paint in detail. Reflections of reflections stretched off into infinity as animals multiplied themselves with mirrors and tried to converse with reflections. I had to sleep as soon as I was done, hungry again.
In the morning I was astounded by just what I had accomplished in so short a time. Half a sketchbook sat done on the couch and a fully finished paintings was near dry on the floor. I laid the painting on my bed to finish drying and paused for only a moment to wonder what came next. My flatmate always had paper. I could pay him back for stealing a few sheets to sustain my pace of work. I painted a mountainous staircase of roots and mirrors that lead the way towards a mighty tree between the roots of which a giant door passed into darkness.
Mirrors became a motif of my work as I noticed I could use both hands to draw now which had never been the case before. I filled the sketchbook in the following hours and indulged my need to run again. I could run faster that time than before and the pain took even longer than before. I circled the city and returned to my flat before the numbness or confusion had its chance to surface. I dug out empty sketchbooks from the mess of clothes and clutter on the floor of my room and set to work on filling them. That lasted until my flatmate returned from his father’s house to greet my new work ethic with much praise and shock.
I wrote stories about reflection and parallel worlds that I’d never thought to word before. Inspiration poured through me onto paper in pen, pencil and paint. Those first days were giddy with possibility. I wrote endless stories and filled endless sketchbooks. I’d never been so prolific whilst painting and suddenly the guitar which I periodically tried and failed to learn was easy to play. I could mimic any song just by hearing it. I could tune the guitar by ear and began to modify it with electrical components I’d long given up making into a robotic sculpture.
At night I read a book before sleeping and sometimes when I woke before my early run. I looped the city three times daily ever faster. I’d always daydreamed about different worlds, technologies or human abilities but it was only then that I really began to dedicate those thoughts to paper in word. Sometimes I types the words because I could type so much faster than I could write but sometimes I would buy a large blank sketchbook and illustrate hand written stories. Nothing took any time anymore. As soon as I had the impulse to do something I was at work and in no time at all it was done. The work piled up in my room. Endless heaving sketchbooks lined the floor like tiles. I put them in boxes and hid them away in my wardrobe but even that space filled with time.
My hunger for everything in life grew with time, my calorie intake doubled as my physical output tripled. I was at my best but that limit was pushed further and further as my potential grew. I published endless short stories via the internet and displayed my artistic works on numerous websites. I received emails requesting tattoo designs and offers to buy work. I was contacted to illustrate books buy authors. My response to every request was of course yes. From being unemployed I had become an entrepreneur with various booming businesses. I rented a large studio with the money and used it to store the vast mountain of work I was accumulating. Stratospheric fame was never a goal of mine, I had to keep pushing myself but never in that direction. I lived from endless small, profitable ventures. Any opportunity that arose was seized including script doctoring for some of my favourite television shows.
In the near future I hope to write my own scripts for those shows as the next step in my advance. The plain air tastes so sweet, it is good to be alive.
I could always run and jump but now I had to. The barriers of apathy and doubt had been pulverised into the foundation of my new road in life. I had to run. I ran, waiting for the pain that usually stopped me too quickly. The pain took much longer to arrive than before and when it did, as bad as it was, I could bear it. The second wall loomed in the distance. I’d run through the pain barrier before into a void of numb disorientation which like the pain came later and was likewise more manageable. I’d run round half the city before my legs gave out as the pain flashed to blackout levels. On my knees in the mud with on looking civilians I took in the new spectrum of thoughts pulsing between neurons in my brain. I knew I could do more. My body would acclimatise to vast improvements in pace and stamina as I ran. The pain was dissipating quickly, only more thoughts joined the throng that now populated my mind. I could walk again, with muddy knees and jog again which became a run. I ran the full loop of the city, vaulting walls and railings with ever greater ease. Anything that might have seemed hard became easy and obvious. Small crowds drew together to watch me climbing trees on a whim and leaping and swinging from branch to branch.
I took in all the colours in more detail than before and they seemed more numerous and varying. I heard the rush of wind and distant cars as I ran, more slowly back home.
At home, after changing from the muddy clothes, I sat on the couch with my near empty sketchbook and drew endlessly in fine detail, what I’d seen on the run. My recall was perfect visually, photorealistic drawings came together in HB pencil on the paper. Half finished ideas surfaced as images I’d toyed with for a long while. Those images collected themselves and came into focus. I poured my dreams and delusions onto those pages and in but two hours I’d half filled the sketchbook.
I cooked myself a good meal with everything I’d never used in the kitchen cupboard. My invigoration only grew as I fuelled myself. I had some large paper hidden in my room that I dug out. I kicked all objects out of my way for enough space on the living room floor and began to draw and paint out one of my most ambitious works to date. I laboured over the detail for hours. A warped forest full of mirrors took me two and a half hours to draw and most of the night to paint in detail. Reflections of reflections stretched off into infinity as animals multiplied themselves with mirrors and tried to converse with reflections. I had to sleep as soon as I was done, hungry again.
In the morning I was astounded by just what I had accomplished in so short a time. Half a sketchbook sat done on the couch and a fully finished paintings was near dry on the floor. I laid the painting on my bed to finish drying and paused for only a moment to wonder what came next. My flatmate always had paper. I could pay him back for stealing a few sheets to sustain my pace of work. I painted a mountainous staircase of roots and mirrors that lead the way towards a mighty tree between the roots of which a giant door passed into darkness.
Mirrors became a motif of my work as I noticed I could use both hands to draw now which had never been the case before. I filled the sketchbook in the following hours and indulged my need to run again. I could run faster that time than before and the pain took even longer than before. I circled the city and returned to my flat before the numbness or confusion had its chance to surface. I dug out empty sketchbooks from the mess of clothes and clutter on the floor of my room and set to work on filling them. That lasted until my flatmate returned from his father’s house to greet my new work ethic with much praise and shock.
I wrote stories about reflection and parallel worlds that I’d never thought to word before. Inspiration poured through me onto paper in pen, pencil and paint. Those first days were giddy with possibility. I wrote endless stories and filled endless sketchbooks. I’d never been so prolific whilst painting and suddenly the guitar which I periodically tried and failed to learn was easy to play. I could mimic any song just by hearing it. I could tune the guitar by ear and began to modify it with electrical components I’d long given up making into a robotic sculpture.
At night I read a book before sleeping and sometimes when I woke before my early run. I looped the city three times daily ever faster. I’d always daydreamed about different worlds, technologies or human abilities but it was only then that I really began to dedicate those thoughts to paper in word. Sometimes I types the words because I could type so much faster than I could write but sometimes I would buy a large blank sketchbook and illustrate hand written stories. Nothing took any time anymore. As soon as I had the impulse to do something I was at work and in no time at all it was done. The work piled up in my room. Endless heaving sketchbooks lined the floor like tiles. I put them in boxes and hid them away in my wardrobe but even that space filled with time.
My hunger for everything in life grew with time, my calorie intake doubled as my physical output tripled. I was at my best but that limit was pushed further and further as my potential grew. I published endless short stories via the internet and displayed my artistic works on numerous websites. I received emails requesting tattoo designs and offers to buy work. I was contacted to illustrate books buy authors. My response to every request was of course yes. From being unemployed I had become an entrepreneur with various booming businesses. I rented a large studio with the money and used it to store the vast mountain of work I was accumulating. Stratospheric fame was never a goal of mine, I had to keep pushing myself but never in that direction. I lived from endless small, profitable ventures. Any opportunity that arose was seized including script doctoring for some of my favourite television shows.
In the near future I hope to write my own scripts for those shows as the next step in my advance. The plain air tastes so sweet, it is good to be alive.
Blog 24: A World Reflected in Every Angle
If you stare long enough into the void then the void will stare back. We’ve been looking at the universe and the world that sits in it long enough for it to gaze back. Having no form of its own it stares at us in our likeness, ourselves and all the earth beneath our feet reflected from every angle. Each gazing reflection is only another manifestation of the universe staring deep into the heart of us.
I’ve seen myself in water and the sky. My face stares down from the bright stars above but each of us sees our self. As manifestations of the universe we can be self conscious but we should be grateful for the company. To stare into the heavens without response would be too cold and lonely an existence. However lonely we are we are taught to seek out ourselves as the guise of the void. You can fall through the reflections. They warp and move us between reflections, those shimmering portals. I love to dive through those gates and doorways only to be thrown upwards into the flipped mirror of my previous world. Getting used to the variations in perspective and orientation took time. Things change, animals change and people change but they don’t know it. To them everything is as it has always been. It is our perception of the world that changes when we wander through a gateway not the world itself. Through our eyes the universe sees itself anew as if looking for the best angle.
Working around the reflections is a skill unknown to the young. I remember the confusion as I stared at my reflection in the water of the river and fell beneath the surface only to be ejected onto the bank of another river on another world. Whenever we need company the universe walks with us in its costume. The other me watches, waiting for something. We wait together and in each reflection in every drop of falling rain we are asked why? The universe is patient but bored. As a reflection fades into peripheral vision it plays games and taunts us for our answers.
The universe is as confused as we are I’m told, more so perhaps. It is the only being of its kind and needs us all as company. We, life, exist to prevent its loneliness evolving into depression. Should it become suicidal there would be nothing for any of us. We must be kind and gracious to our fragile host.
Sometimes it seems bored of us as toys and changes the rules. Caught in the reflection of a raindrop we might lose our perspective on the world and face the confusion of learning the rules of our new orientation. Changing our perspective on the world is a cruel trick to play on the weary or wizened. I have woken in dazes and torn through a world that was not mine when I lay down to sleep. For those with minds addled by age a change of perspective can be deadly. It rarely plays its tricks on the old and sometimes I wonder if it punishes the perpetrators of crimes only it remembers. One day I might be one of those old souls, long friends of the universe. I hope it will be kind to me.
I’ve seen myself in water and the sky. My face stares down from the bright stars above but each of us sees our self. As manifestations of the universe we can be self conscious but we should be grateful for the company. To stare into the heavens without response would be too cold and lonely an existence. However lonely we are we are taught to seek out ourselves as the guise of the void. You can fall through the reflections. They warp and move us between reflections, those shimmering portals. I love to dive through those gates and doorways only to be thrown upwards into the flipped mirror of my previous world. Getting used to the variations in perspective and orientation took time. Things change, animals change and people change but they don’t know it. To them everything is as it has always been. It is our perception of the world that changes when we wander through a gateway not the world itself. Through our eyes the universe sees itself anew as if looking for the best angle.
Working around the reflections is a skill unknown to the young. I remember the confusion as I stared at my reflection in the water of the river and fell beneath the surface only to be ejected onto the bank of another river on another world. Whenever we need company the universe walks with us in its costume. The other me watches, waiting for something. We wait together and in each reflection in every drop of falling rain we are asked why? The universe is patient but bored. As a reflection fades into peripheral vision it plays games and taunts us for our answers.
The universe is as confused as we are I’m told, more so perhaps. It is the only being of its kind and needs us all as company. We, life, exist to prevent its loneliness evolving into depression. Should it become suicidal there would be nothing for any of us. We must be kind and gracious to our fragile host.
Sometimes it seems bored of us as toys and changes the rules. Caught in the reflection of a raindrop we might lose our perspective on the world and face the confusion of learning the rules of our new orientation. Changing our perspective on the world is a cruel trick to play on the weary or wizened. I have woken in dazes and torn through a world that was not mine when I lay down to sleep. For those with minds addled by age a change of perspective can be deadly. It rarely plays its tricks on the old and sometimes I wonder if it punishes the perpetrators of crimes only it remembers. One day I might be one of those old souls, long friends of the universe. I hope it will be kind to me.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Blog 23: Jumping
He reached the nest floor. His legs were getting tired. Instead of following the stairs still further he walked across the dusty glass floor that suspended him high above the chasm of the rooms far below. Chains rattled and the wind whistled between unmanned machines. Police tape lay torn in a doorway. It had been a crime scene at one point evidently. Outside the rain continued to pour down upon the roof and walls. He heard the drips as water found its way into the building. Vague footsteps marked the floor through which he only saw darkness below. The yellow brick was turning green in many places as mould grew in the damp. Here and there plants grew in what might some days be a patch of sunlight. The wood of the banister was rotten and slimly and crumbled beneath his fingers. He wiped the gunk of on his trousers. It was damp but still dusty and his coughs echoed in the cavernous space.
Bored, he turned back to the stairs. The rusty iron of the staircase was far from trustworthy. He gripped the railing tightly and tested each step before trusting his weight on it. Out of the windows he saw the endless acres of factories and warehouses like it. Progress was slow until the rusty stairs became concrete which he put more faith in. His footsteps clattered as he clambered, feeling heavy.
He scattered birds on the rooftop. Seagulls parted grudgingly to allow him the view. Down, far below, was ground. Grass had grown through the tarmac and was a thick carpet in the shadow of his perch. He could parachute from that height, he would have time during the fall. At the precipice of the tallest building for hundreds of miles he paused. If he was wrong it would mean his death. Gravel crunched beneath his trainers as he negotiated the edge.
Doubt was the enemy of progress he thought, do not hesitate. Instincts screamed at him to anchor himself to the immobile earth beneath but he lunged for the air before him. Every drop of epinephrine available was released into his system as he plummeted earthward. His life did not flash before him but seemed to play out as memories spilling out behind him. Fear rose and fell to exhilaration as the ground soared ever closer.
He braced from impact and readied his reactions. In milliseconds the pain was total but he carried out the intended roll for several meters before losing consciousness.
He woke, still sore, having conquered gravity again. The agony radiated far beyond the limits of his flesh and followed the trail of his blood back to the point of impact. His vision was hazy and discoloured as he looked up at the looming tower he had jumped from. To breathe caused horrific pain but if he failed his vision darkened. Mind had triumphed over matter as he saw it but that might have been concussion. Pain would be his companion for weeks to come and for days a more corporeal companion than the friends that did not believe his story.
He crawled through the grass and tarmac for miles until he learned to stomach the pain and disorientation of walking. His horrified mothers shouts fell on ears deaf from damage and boredom. He would not be dissuaded from the madness. He could do what no one else could, because no one else was so stupid. He’d walked the thin line between life and death. He enjoyed tainting the reaper. On his dying day he thought his corpse would have more life left in it than most were born with.
He would not change. Pain was no deterrent when compared with the rush he felt on the edge. He was special, well built. He was not particularly muscular, not bulky anyway. His body was the product of his obsession, lean and finely tuned for the next mad move of whim. His friends called him insane. He loved hearing the truth.
Bored, he turned back to the stairs. The rusty iron of the staircase was far from trustworthy. He gripped the railing tightly and tested each step before trusting his weight on it. Out of the windows he saw the endless acres of factories and warehouses like it. Progress was slow until the rusty stairs became concrete which he put more faith in. His footsteps clattered as he clambered, feeling heavy.
He scattered birds on the rooftop. Seagulls parted grudgingly to allow him the view. Down, far below, was ground. Grass had grown through the tarmac and was a thick carpet in the shadow of his perch. He could parachute from that height, he would have time during the fall. At the precipice of the tallest building for hundreds of miles he paused. If he was wrong it would mean his death. Gravel crunched beneath his trainers as he negotiated the edge.
Doubt was the enemy of progress he thought, do not hesitate. Instincts screamed at him to anchor himself to the immobile earth beneath but he lunged for the air before him. Every drop of epinephrine available was released into his system as he plummeted earthward. His life did not flash before him but seemed to play out as memories spilling out behind him. Fear rose and fell to exhilaration as the ground soared ever closer.
He braced from impact and readied his reactions. In milliseconds the pain was total but he carried out the intended roll for several meters before losing consciousness.
He woke, still sore, having conquered gravity again. The agony radiated far beyond the limits of his flesh and followed the trail of his blood back to the point of impact. His vision was hazy and discoloured as he looked up at the looming tower he had jumped from. To breathe caused horrific pain but if he failed his vision darkened. Mind had triumphed over matter as he saw it but that might have been concussion. Pain would be his companion for weeks to come and for days a more corporeal companion than the friends that did not believe his story.
He crawled through the grass and tarmac for miles until he learned to stomach the pain and disorientation of walking. His horrified mothers shouts fell on ears deaf from damage and boredom. He would not be dissuaded from the madness. He could do what no one else could, because no one else was so stupid. He’d walked the thin line between life and death. He enjoyed tainting the reaper. On his dying day he thought his corpse would have more life left in it than most were born with.
He would not change. Pain was no deterrent when compared with the rush he felt on the edge. He was special, well built. He was not particularly muscular, not bulky anyway. His body was the product of his obsession, lean and finely tuned for the next mad move of whim. His friends called him insane. He loved hearing the truth.
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
Blog 22: Bobby The Chef
They had been watching earth for a while. An excuse was sought to visit the strange humans. Humanity was primitive and violent but fascinating.
Bobby was a chef. He’d been in charge of providing nutrition for the observation crew. Bobby had written several published cookery books since he’d been posted there. He had an arrogance famed far and wide and boasted that his food could convince any female to copulate with him. He’d watched the crew for years, watched them watching the humans. He’d spent a long time himself watching the humans. He was a fan of their cookery programs. The cookery program as an idea had never taken off amongst Bobby’s species. He wanted to invent the cookery show for his people. He stole the show during documentaries about the earthly observation station.
The observation station had long been equipped with the means to visit earth but permission for first contact had been pending for decades. The crew of the station had accepted that they were as close as they would ever be to humanity within their lifetime. Bobby was less placid. A fan of the earthly cooking shows he was, a fan of the chefs he was not.
On earth one of those chefs was recording his weekly show with a studio audience to absorb the aromas of his work. He was a proud man, proud of how quickly he could bring together a meal that anyone would enjoy, proud of his restaurant empire, proud of his own television show. In the midst of preparing the worlds best roast dinner he stopped to explain the steps he’d taken to the audience and the three cameras that watched him from different angles.
Next to him appeared a large, ruddy faced man who picked up his conversation mid sentence and began to contradict everything he would have said. Bobby was furious and joyous at the same time. After all the moaning and promises he had made first contact with earth. The human saw Bobby flicker and morph and return, he was in shock. Bobby continued to finish the recipe with a vastly different range of ingredients in less time than the human chef had taken to introduce himself at the start of the show.
The human chef stood gormless as the alien announced to the audience that their idol was entirely flawed. He left out too many flavours from the mix and lost the potential of each dish to Bobby’s fury. Bobby’s correction barely made it past the walls of the chef’s bewilderment. The chef was busy trying to decide on the form of the alien. His appearance would seem human for moments at a time and flicker between a fog of colour and an abstract form of life. The chef was long used to defending his work against auditory slander and eventually the aliens corrections triggered his instinct to crush opposition. He tasted the finished work of the alien and spat on the ground next to him.
Bobby’s fury climaxed as he threw the human’s kitchen implements across the floor. His reply to the humans insult shut the human back within confusion. Bobby realised his mistake, he had seen his passion for food in humanity. He had seen ingredients like his and assumed a similar path to their refinement. The destination for human flavour was different from the destination to which he delivered the crew of the observation station.
He departed immediately leaving the chef still in shock. The chef would leave his career behind in search of answers. He would write open ended books never to be published and engage in vast communication webs with conspiracy theorists worldwide. He would fall from fame through perceived madness into quiet muttering.
Bobby would survive ridicule and castigation, remaining the chef at the observation station while the humans explained away his appearance as a prank. When their two species met again Bobby would be absent although his recipes would be represented amongst the food of their people taken as offerings to the humans.
Bobby was a chef. He’d been in charge of providing nutrition for the observation crew. Bobby had written several published cookery books since he’d been posted there. He had an arrogance famed far and wide and boasted that his food could convince any female to copulate with him. He’d watched the crew for years, watched them watching the humans. He’d spent a long time himself watching the humans. He was a fan of their cookery programs. The cookery program as an idea had never taken off amongst Bobby’s species. He wanted to invent the cookery show for his people. He stole the show during documentaries about the earthly observation station.
The observation station had long been equipped with the means to visit earth but permission for first contact had been pending for decades. The crew of the station had accepted that they were as close as they would ever be to humanity within their lifetime. Bobby was less placid. A fan of the earthly cooking shows he was, a fan of the chefs he was not.
On earth one of those chefs was recording his weekly show with a studio audience to absorb the aromas of his work. He was a proud man, proud of how quickly he could bring together a meal that anyone would enjoy, proud of his restaurant empire, proud of his own television show. In the midst of preparing the worlds best roast dinner he stopped to explain the steps he’d taken to the audience and the three cameras that watched him from different angles.
Next to him appeared a large, ruddy faced man who picked up his conversation mid sentence and began to contradict everything he would have said. Bobby was furious and joyous at the same time. After all the moaning and promises he had made first contact with earth. The human saw Bobby flicker and morph and return, he was in shock. Bobby continued to finish the recipe with a vastly different range of ingredients in less time than the human chef had taken to introduce himself at the start of the show.
The human chef stood gormless as the alien announced to the audience that their idol was entirely flawed. He left out too many flavours from the mix and lost the potential of each dish to Bobby’s fury. Bobby’s correction barely made it past the walls of the chef’s bewilderment. The chef was busy trying to decide on the form of the alien. His appearance would seem human for moments at a time and flicker between a fog of colour and an abstract form of life. The chef was long used to defending his work against auditory slander and eventually the aliens corrections triggered his instinct to crush opposition. He tasted the finished work of the alien and spat on the ground next to him.
Bobby’s fury climaxed as he threw the human’s kitchen implements across the floor. His reply to the humans insult shut the human back within confusion. Bobby realised his mistake, he had seen his passion for food in humanity. He had seen ingredients like his and assumed a similar path to their refinement. The destination for human flavour was different from the destination to which he delivered the crew of the observation station.
He departed immediately leaving the chef still in shock. The chef would leave his career behind in search of answers. He would write open ended books never to be published and engage in vast communication webs with conspiracy theorists worldwide. He would fall from fame through perceived madness into quiet muttering.
Bobby would survive ridicule and castigation, remaining the chef at the observation station while the humans explained away his appearance as a prank. When their two species met again Bobby would be absent although his recipes would be represented amongst the food of their people taken as offerings to the humans.
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