Narration is what you do when you fail.
‘How-how does the Universe end?’ said Billy.
‘We blow it up, experimenting with new fuels for our flying saucers. A Tralfamadorian test pilot presses a starter button, and the whole Universe disappears.’ So it goes.
“If you know this,” said Billy, ‘isn’t there some way you can prevent it? Can’t you keep the pilot from pressing the button?’
‘He has always pressed it, and he always will. We always let him and we always will let him. The moment is structured that way.’
On his second day, Billy was cleaning behind a radiator and he found a spoon. To his back was a vat of syrup that was cooling. The only other person who could see Billy and his spoon was poor old Edgar Derby, who was washing a window outside. The spoon was a tablespoon. Billy thrust it into the vat, turned it around and around, making a gooey lollipop. He thrust it into his mouth. A moment went by, and then every cell in Billy’s body shook him with ravenous gratitude and applause. There were diffident raps at the factory window. Derby was out there, having seen all. He wanted some syrup, too.
So Billy made a lollipop for him. He opened the window. He stuck the lollipop into poor old Derby’s gaping mouth. A moment passed, and then Derby burst into tears.
(by Marlon Hammes)
(by Zach Singh)
(by Jeff Gehres)
For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.