Authors: Stefan Petrucha
FutureImperfect (16 page)
Pushing the present
From six until twelve
Sisyphus times his own prison
He can't hear the ticking
He's too busy kicking
Dead in the center, just spinning
Then he falls just as slow
But it's not far to go
When you have to end up beginning
âS
IARA
W
ARNER
, T
ENTH
G
RADE
As Jeremy stepped through, a trophy appeared in his arms. It felt warm, like the hug of a mother; perfect, like a father's approval.
He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he'd won. Harry Keller was as dead.
And now the kisses of a hundred gorgeous women awaited him and the balm of sweet water that poured from a hundred fountains not built by the hand of man.
His smile faded when he saw there was one last door, beyond which lay an even greater prize.
So he ran to it, not noticing the trophy in his hands vanishing. He pushed the door and it yielded, like a woman who wanted him in the worst possible way.
And there at last was the final, dizzying truth.
As Jeremy stepped through, a trophy appeared in his arms. It felt warm, like the hug of a mother; perfect, like a father's approval.
He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he'd won. Harry Keller was as dead.
And now he kisses of a hundred gorgeous women awaited and the balm of sweet water that poured from a hundred fountains not built by the hand of man.
His smile faded when he saw there was one last door, beyond which lay an even greater prize.
So he ran to it, not noticing the trophy in his hands vanished. He pushed the door and it yielded, like a woman who wanted him in the worst possible way.
And there at last was the final, dizzying truth.
As Jeremy stepped through, a trophy appeared in his arms. It felt warm, like the hug of a mother; perfect, like a father's approval.
He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he'd won. Harry Keller was as dead.
And now he kisses of a hundred gorgeous women awaited and the balm of sweet water that poured from a hundred fountains not built by the hand of man.
His smile faded when he saw there was one last door, beyond which lay an even greater prize.
So he ran to it, not noticing the trophy in his hands vanished. He pushed the door and it yielded, like a woman who wanted him in the worst possible way.
And there at last was the final, dizzying truth.
As Jeremy stepped through, a trophy appeared in his arms. It felt warm, like the hug of a mother; perfect, like a father's approval.
He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he'd won. Harry Keller was as dead.
And now he kisses of a hundred gorgeous women awaited and the balm of sweet water that poured from a hundred fountains not built by the hand of man.
His smile faded when he saw there was one last door, beyond which lay an even greater prize.
So he ran to it, not noticing the trophy in his hands vanished. He pushed the door and it yielded, like a woman who wanted him in the worst possible way.
And there at last was the final, dizzying truth.
As Jeremy stepped through, a trophy appeared in his arms. It felt warm, like the hug of a mother; perfect, like a father's approval.
He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he'd won. Harry Keller was as dead.
And now he kisses of a hundred gorgeous women awaited and the balm of sweet water that poured from a hundred fountains not built by the hand of man.
His smile faded when he saw there was one last door, beyond which lay an even greater prize.
So he ran to it, not noticing the trophy in his hands vanished. He pushed the door and it yielded, like a woman who wanted him in the worst possible way.
And there at last was the final, dizzying truthâ¦
“Time is speeding up. And to what end? Maybe we were told that two thousand years ago. Or maybe it wasn't really that long ago; maybe it is a delusion that so much time has passed. Maybe it was a week ago, or even earlier today. Perhaps time is not only speeding up; perhaps, in addition, it is going to end.
And if it does, the rides at Disneyland are never going to be the same again. Because when time ends, the birds and hippos and lions and deer at Disneyland will no longer be simulations, and, for the first time, a real bird will sing.”
âP
HILIP
K. D
ICK
, 1978
Again and always to Liesa Abrams for rescuing
Squalor
from timeless obscurity. To Eloise Flood for agreeing with her. To Margaret Wright for putting up with my flailings and failings, and the same to Amy Stout-Moran, wherever she may be. To Andy Ball and Ben Schrank for picking up where others left off.
To Who Wants Cake (Dan Braum, K. Z. Perry, Lee Thomas, Nick Kaufmann, and Sarah Langanâthe best crit group
ever
!) not only for their advice, but also just for seeming happy whenever they got to read another chapter of Harry and Co. Now that I'm out of NY and living in Amherst, I shall miss these scarecrows most of all.
Lastly, since all selves may be fictional, to Harry Keller, my first profesional fictional creation, named not after some latter-day boy wizard, but after poor, crazed Harry Haller (from Herman Hesse's
Steppenwolf
) and Helen Keller, whose lack of sight and hearing gave her glimpses of a greater world. Hope I did right by you!