Your Ghost Speaks

Not your bones, but the bones of someone someone you knew knew turn up in a garden. The alphabet, in which your perception swam like a minnow in the sea, now turns up on the odd artifact, under a rock, a jumble of strange lines, curves and whorls dropping a nonsense syllable here and there to the world of the deaf.

How many soda cans did you throw in the trash? Not your soda can, but some nameless one out of billions is in a private collection in the northern hemisphere; there is another ancient soda can, less well-preserved, in the southern hemisphere. Some words — insect, cloudburst, boring — survive, but they are hardly recognizable in the new languages. Something crucial depends on the word ‘fletz’ but you cannot know what it is.

In the middle of a featureless plain juts a tall cream-colored cylinder. An individual with tufts of hair on his nose and forehead is scratching symbols in a tight spiral around the girth of this cylinder. Somehow these symbols relate to the world and time you lived in, but it is only this lone individual who carves them, and only here, in this desert. No-one is around to see him, but still he goes on scratching, filling up his available space with incorrect suppositions.




Author: mattamati

Nothing remarkable to report. Born in suburbs. Diffidently educated. Used to do other jobs, now he does this one. Fancies self a writer.

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