wind became a chorus he might never have imagined. His papers riffled in his hand, but he held them tight, penning the sound in his ears, marking a great melody in bars of seven.
He knew instinctively that he'd become a conductor, and his orchestra was nothing less than the elements themselves.
He held the key.
He was unlocking the sounds of heaven.
Just like a Vaudevillian with a Gillespie horn.
In a fury, he put his pen back to the paper, marking out notes with haste, his hand flying across the page. The maelstrom whipped and churned, but all he heard were sevens, beautiful, indecipherable sevens.
Then he came to the end of his sheet, a single phrase yet to write, and paused as at the climax of a symphony, holding a great note before the finale.
And again he heard the old man, the minor thespian.
There's power in that, my friend. The power to undo.
With a single beat of his heart, he knew to decipher the song would make him forever a part of it.
Like a horn joined forever in the waves.
Jimmy shook with the feverish desire to unlock the mystery, to see his finding through its conclusion.
As the wind lashed and the water churned, he listened to another measure of seven.
And dropped his pen.
In moments the sea and air calmed.
Jimmy loosened his grip on his opus, the pages scattering about him, carried on mild breezes to the water's edge. He fell back and grabbed fists full of sand, imagining the difference between heaven and earth.
In the moments that followed, he could no longer count the rhythms of the ocean, its voice become again a mystery to him. But gentle it came, and it lulled his senses, like any good jazz music should.
Approaching Zero
by Kelly Parks
Artwork by Thorsten Grambow
----
The girl at the desk was not so friendly anymore. She used to be, when my benefactor first set me up here on the 22nd floor. She used to be ditzy and friendly and childishly inquisitive about my work. But the pretense was gone now. Marta was Max's spy, here only to make sure my reports were honest.
And why wasn't she pretending anymore? Because it was over. I hadn't received official notification that the project was finished, but I felt sure the decision was made. It was a matter of days at most before the power was shut off and all the equipment went into storage.
She was intently surfing the net, undoubtedly shopping her receptionist/spy resume around to various wealthy madmen. I silently wished her luck, but didn't bother with conversation, having lost interest in pretense myself.
Past the reception area, down a hall with doors to small offices -- all unoccupied -- through a set of double doors and there I was: standing in front of the only gateway to alternate universes that had ever existed in human history. I built it and I should have won the Nobel Prize for it, but part of the agreement I'd made in exchange for the money to build it had been a thoroughly binding secrecy agreement. I'm pretty sure there was a clause in there somewhere about my soul.
Part of me still believed in miracles because there was a familiar feeling of hope as I switched on the equipment and began going through last night's logs, but it was quickly replaced by black despair as I saw that nothing had changed.
My cell beeped at me, the pattern telling me it was Max, or at least Max's office. I flipped it open and the tiny screen showed the fresh, young face of Art Samuelson, one of Max's lawyers. He smiled a sunny smile, waiting for me to accept the call.
I did. "Good morning, Art, " I said. No reason to be unfriendly. Lawyers can't help being what they are. No point in hating fungus for being fungus.
"David," he said. "Good morning to you! In the lab, eh? Never say die, that's you."
"The scans are getting much wider ranging now," I said, which was true. I was searching a bigger slice of infinity. "The results should be --"
"Dave," he interrupted in that pseudo-friendly way that you unconsciously want to
He knew instinctively that he'd become a conductor, and his orchestra was nothing less than the elements themselves.
He held the key.
He was unlocking the sounds of heaven.
Just like a Vaudevillian with a Gillespie horn.
In a fury, he put his pen back to the paper, marking out notes with haste, his hand flying across the page. The maelstrom whipped and churned, but all he heard were sevens, beautiful, indecipherable sevens.
Then he came to the end of his sheet, a single phrase yet to write, and paused as at the climax of a symphony, holding a great note before the finale.
And again he heard the old man, the minor thespian.
There's power in that, my friend. The power to undo.
With a single beat of his heart, he knew to decipher the song would make him forever a part of it.
Like a horn joined forever in the waves.
Jimmy shook with the feverish desire to unlock the mystery, to see his finding through its conclusion.
As the wind lashed and the water churned, he listened to another measure of seven.
And dropped his pen.
In moments the sea and air calmed.
Jimmy loosened his grip on his opus, the pages scattering about him, carried on mild breezes to the water's edge. He fell back and grabbed fists full of sand, imagining the difference between heaven and earth.
In the moments that followed, he could no longer count the rhythms of the ocean, its voice become again a mystery to him. But gentle it came, and it lulled his senses, like any good jazz music should.
Approaching Zero
by Kelly Parks
Artwork by Thorsten Grambow
----
The girl at the desk was not so friendly anymore. She used to be, when my benefactor first set me up here on the 22nd floor. She used to be ditzy and friendly and childishly inquisitive about my work. But the pretense was gone now. Marta was Max's spy, here only to make sure my reports were honest.
And why wasn't she pretending anymore? Because it was over. I hadn't received official notification that the project was finished, but I felt sure the decision was made. It was a matter of days at most before the power was shut off and all the equipment went into storage.
She was intently surfing the net, undoubtedly shopping her receptionist/spy resume around to various wealthy madmen. I silently wished her luck, but didn't bother with conversation, having lost interest in pretense myself.
Past the reception area, down a hall with doors to small offices -- all unoccupied -- through a set of double doors and there I was: standing in front of the only gateway to alternate universes that had ever existed in human history. I built it and I should have won the Nobel Prize for it, but part of the agreement I'd made in exchange for the money to build it had been a thoroughly binding secrecy agreement. I'm pretty sure there was a clause in there somewhere about my soul.
Part of me still believed in miracles because there was a familiar feeling of hope as I switched on the equipment and began going through last night's logs, but it was quickly replaced by black despair as I saw that nothing had changed.
My cell beeped at me, the pattern telling me it was Max, or at least Max's office. I flipped it open and the tiny screen showed the fresh, young face of Art Samuelson, one of Max's lawyers. He smiled a sunny smile, waiting for me to accept the call.
I did. "Good morning, Art, " I said. No reason to be unfriendly. Lawyers can't help being what they are. No point in hating fungus for being fungus.
"David," he said. "Good morning to you! In the lab, eh? Never say die, that's you."
"The scans are getting much wider ranging now," I said, which was true. I was searching a bigger slice of infinity. "The results should be --"
"Dave," he interrupted in that pseudo-friendly way that you unconsciously want to
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