Report on the 10,000 B.C. Art Biennial

AGARTA CAVE -- The 10,000 B.C. Agarta-Kintuk Art Biennial, popularly known simply as Art Agarta, in many respects presented an interesting departure from previous biennials. Unlike the 10,004 and 10,002 shows, which were held entirely inside caves, Agarta 10,000 was held partly out of doors, in the open air of the beautiful Durnur hills, with only about a third of the exhibits inside spacious Agarta Cave itself.

"We are entering a new millennium," declared Murklik-Tashgurk, president of the Agarta-Kintuk Art Biennial International Committee, during his opening remarks. "As we are all aware, the long Ice Age is finally coming to an end, the world is growing warmer, and the progressive lifestyles of the future will take place increasingly outdoors. Art Agarta demonstrates its forward-thinking approach this year by hosting the first-ever art biennial not entirely confined to the caverns."

Indeed, ultramodern fields such as architecture, agriculture, and organized warfare were represented in works by a number of this year's artists. "The Paleolithic is so 10,001," stated avant-garde sculptor Rocroc, whose new work Petrified Horseshit, described as a work of "found art", garnered a great deal of attention at this year's event. "The art world doesn't revolve around Lascaux anymore. I mean, you've got these conservative judges who think that if it's not a cave painting of a large mammal, it can't be art. Well, you know what, they need to catch up with the 10th millennium."

One aspect of the biennial remained little changed from previous years, however. The extravagance of the art collecting elite was on full display on opening night, with many women spotted wearing the exotic furs of luxury fashion designer Turlip-Shamshash and precious gems from the Surkul-Noomvin mines. Some saw this as more evidence of the increasing dominance of the art world by the uber-rich.

"Look, I like to make a living as much as the next guy," said sculptor Krikrik-Bontish. "But honestly, these fat cat buyers wouldn't know really interesting or important work if it clawed them in the face. They always go for the latest, most faddish or shocking thing. And, quite frankly, I think that represents a threat to the integrity of contemporary artists and their work, since in order to survive many of us feel pressured to cater to these [buyers'] shallow bourgeois tastes. My work doesn't fetch the highest prices anymore--statuettes of extremely rotund women aren't considered trendy these days--but I won't let the whims of the buyers dictate my art. Some of us still believe in beauty."

Others aimed their criticism at some of the artists. The controversial iconoclast Xixax, known for his elaborately plumed outfits, sparkly jewels, and charcoal-smeared eyelids, was particularly skeptical about the merit of Rocroc's work. "Look, darling, I'm all for experimentation, but I've got to say that if Petrified Horseshit is the future of art, just kill me now. Can we say boring? Also, to be quite honest, I think he's a total fake. There's no way anyone can prove that's an actual piece of petrified horseshit. If you ask me, it's just some ugly rock he found gods only know where. I mean, let me put it this way, honey: the only shit I'm seeing over there is bullshit."

Another sculptor, Lilim-Varna, however, saw progress in the art world. "It's really encouraging," she said, "to see more women artists represented at the biennial this year. I like to think this means that the domination of the art world by men will soon be a thing of the past."

One surprise feature at Art Agarta this year was the performance art collective Roaritania, who traveled from a desert kingdom that is said to lie beyond the southern sea. Their appearance alone made quite an impression on this Ice Age European crowd, most of whom, it is fair to say, had never seen anyone whose skin was not a blindingly pallid shade of white.

"I think it's great," said abstract painter Lorry-Penkaza, "that the Committee is working toward greater diversity and representation. It's important for all of us to be aware that there is a world beyond the glaciers."

One young attendee, identified only as Ug, summed up his experience at the show this way: "I'm excited because I've always wanted to be an artist but my parents always say there's no money in it, you'll never be able to support yourself, blah blah blah. But now, seeing how much Petrified Horseshit sold for, I think there's hope."

Message from the Future

Greetings.

My name is Shakshak and I am sending you this message from about 5.6 billion years in the future. Shakshak is not my real name, but it shall be convenient for you to call me by it. Your kind lacks the anatomical capability of using or understanding my language just as surely as a sea worm is unable to use or understand yours.

The information I am about to give you will probably prove of no practical value to you whatsoever. I feel the need to state this as your human race places a bizarrely high value on that which you deem useful. We long ago evolved beyond such lower level concerns. In any case, I merely offer this knowledge for your pleasure, as even your primitive species displays some slight valuation of knowledge for its own sake.

You will not be surprised to know that our science is incomprehensibly more advanced than your own. We have been able to learn far more about the universe and its history (and likely future) than you may have thought possible. In fact, the extent of our knowledge dwarfs your own scientific attainments on the order of something like ten billion to one. In other words, we know about 10,000,000,000 times more than you do.

However, lest you should consider this mere bragging (a behavior which is utterly foreign to us), I should also point out that our knowledge of our own ignorance exceeds your own such knowledge by a far greater magnitude. This is because, as one of your own sayings puts it so well, the more you know, the more you realize how much you don’t know. With each tremendous advance in knowledge, there is an even greater increase in the awareness of how much we still don’t understand. You humans really have no idea just how little you know about things. That is not an insult, it is a simple statement of fact. We have a far more extensive awareness of our ignorance, and, according to our best estimates (which we of course cannot know are even remotely accurate), what is left to be known, or perhaps what is never knowable, outnumbers the known by a factor of 125 quadrillion to one.

So, if there is any practical “takeaway” from this missive, it is this: You will never know everything, not even close; in fact, the more you learn, the more depressingly obvious it will become how much there is that you can never know. So get over it. Accept the fact of perpetual ignorance and move on.

However, we now have far more knowledge of cosmic history and can date things with a fair degree of accuracy.

For instance, what you so charmingly call the Big Bang (your understanding of it is still very childish, but the general concept is correct) we now know occurred on a Saturday morning—to be exact, it was September 3rd in what you might call the year 13,846,347,188 B.C. at precisely 8:01 a.m. local time.

It should be noted, however, that there is a margin of error of +/- 2.66 million years.

Be that as it may, the time cited above is generally accepted as the exact moment of Creation. Further, we have been able to determine, via methods that are light years beyond your comprehension, what most likely existed prior to the Big Bang: Nothing.

That’s right. No pre-existent matter, no form of energy, no fluctuating quantum state. Nothing. Not even “empty space”. Just plain nothing. So it appears that somehow, in ways no one may ever understand, at one non-moment (as time did not yet exist) there was absolutely nothing, and then all of a sudden the universe just exploded into being.

One question that vexes our philosophers is that, given the presumed start time of 8:01 a.m., how do you explain that everything, including time itself, began when it was already 8 hours and 1 minute after midnight? And it was already Saturday morning—what happened to the rest of that week?

These are just a few of the quadrillions upon quadrillions of questions we may never be able to answer.

Now, as for the age of the earth, it is difficult to state with precision due to the fact that the earth, unlike the universe, had the courtesy of not just suddenly appearing out of nowhere at some singular moment in time (namely, the very first moment in time). The earth, as you well know, gradually accreted from the materials of the solar nebula, a process which took many millions of years. However, our best guess for the moment at which the earth achieved its full mass is 5:37 p.m. on Thursday, February 30 (the earth’s rotation was different back then and February actually had 32 days), 4,681,355,476 B.C., give or take 1.25 million years or so.

Life first appeared on earth in what is, in your time period, New Jersey, at 6:13 a.m. on the morning of Tuesday, May 12, 3,866,554,789 B.C. The first fish to crawl up onto the land—well, it depends. You see, it first happened at 7:57 a.m. on Monday, July 13 in the year 398,512,654 B.C., near your city of London; however, the fish only remained on the surface for a few minutes before retreating back into the water (it was, after all, Monday morning, and even in our time we know how difficult it can be to really get going on a Monday). However, I am glad to report that the following day, Tuesday, July 14, the fish climbed up onto the land once more and decided to stay this time. How it managed to breathe, given that it was a fish who had spent its entire life underwater, we still do not know.

The first human being of your kind—what you so adorably call Homo sapiens—was born at 4:28 p.m. on Wednesday, April 1, 186,244 B.C. in the land you know as Kenya. Her parents did not notice that she was in fact an entirely new species. They just thought her a rather odd-looking child with a few strange yet endearing quirks. Sadly, she got picked on a lot at school; but I am happy to report that she went on to have a brilliant career as a maker of innovative new tools.

So much for your past. Now to enlighten you as to your future.

The good news is that world peace and social justice will be achieved—at exactly 10:04 a.m. on the morning of Friday, June 24, 2380.

The bad news is that it will not last long. World peace and social justice being such inherently fragile things given the nature of your species, this sublime yet passing state of utopia will begin to unravel, alas, as early as the following Monday morning, June 27, when a certain Malko Darson, residing in the suburbs of Cleveland, accidentally spills scalding hot coffee on his hand and then goes on to be in a cranky mood all day. It would be too tedious and depressing to recount the unlikely chain of events that follows which eventually leads to the complete dissolution of world peace and social justice. You’ll find out.

However, for anyone who happens to be alive in 2380—enjoy that weekend.

You may be wondering about my species’ relationship to your own. Well, as we are separated by some five billion years, it is difficult to trace with any degree of certainty. Our scientists tend to assume that we are your descendants. This is because, assuming that your race did not simply die out at some point (the fossil and historical records are unclear on this point and I can assure you it is a source of heated controversy among scholars), then we are more than likely, in fact almost certainly, among your many descendant species. Yes, many. Think of it this way—each person who leaves behind descendants typically ends up having a multitude of them, continually branching out across time. It is similar to how your ancestors become more numerous the further back you go in history.

Species are the same way. If the human race did not go extinct, then a large number of the species alive today are your descendants, from my own highly advanced race to the lowly sea worms of the Martian oceans (which, I am sad to report, are severely endangered at present due to the expansion of the sun).

We are as different from you, however, as you are from the early forms of sea life that populated the earth. In fact, given the far greater distance in time, we are even further removed from you than you are from them. This does not necessarily mean we are better, and if we are more advanced it is not a matter of evolutionary necessity. As I said, the Martian sea worms may very well be your great great infinitely-many-greats grandchildren too.

And as I stated before, we do not even know with certainty that we are descended from you. It seems the most likely scenario, however, because, apart from the theory of human descent, we have the darnedest time trying to figure out just exactly where we came from.

It is no use telling you what we call ourselves, since, as I mentioned at the outset, you lack the anatomical capability of “speaking” our language (we do not really “speak” as you understand the term; it is a mere analogy).

Oh, by the way, I should mention too that the earth was burnt up by the red giant sun some ages ago. I would say it’s been about 300 million years at least. My species dwells in a vast network of thought clouds scattered all over the solar system.

You may be interested to know that intelligent life does exist elsewhere in the universe. However, don’t get your hopes up. Most of them are either dreadfully boring and unsophisticated or else too pretentious and self-absorbed to bother with. We have tried making friends with many species across the Milky Way but, except for a few other intelligent cosmic outcasts like us with whom we exchange infrequent messages and visits, we remain isolated and lonely. The galactic community isn’t nearly as glitzy and glamorous as you might imagine, and we don’t care about being invited to their parties anyway.

One way in which we are quite different from you is that we do not exactly reproduce. Not being bound to biological forms, we continue via a type of information preservation and recombination. We have something like what you know as love, but unlike you, we do not associate it with reproduction. Ours is a purely intellectual love. Our ancestors evolved beyond sex eons ago and we do not miss it at all. We observe sexual behavior in lesser species and it is a phenomenon that arouses in us almost universal revulsion and horror. I am sorry you still have to deal with that.

Finally, we have been able to calculate the exact moment at which the universe itself will end. What happens after that we do not know, although the best guess is what came before: Nothing. If an observer could somehow travel there (which would of course be impossible as there is literally nothing there to travel to), he would not be able to find a single trace of evidence that the universe ever existed. So it will be just as though the universe never did exist at all. No one will remember you or your life; there will be no one there to remember. Therefore, enjoy it while it lasts.

However, the good news is that we have a very long time left until all of reality disappears without a trace. According to our best estimates, the universe will go poof at precisely 7:55 a.m. on April 24 in the year 10 to the 10^th to the 54^th A.D. (give or take 981 quadrillion years).

It will, of course, be a Monday morning.

The Yellow Sweater

The Yellow Sweater

  My wife and I had just moved into an elegant old three-story Victorian in Saint Louis during the midst of a cold, wet spring. The house was a bit drafty but otherwise in fine shape. We made our bedroom on the second floor.

  The very first night in the house, I awoke—or thought I awoke—deep in the middle of the night, and glanced about, somewhat startled by the strange dark room in which I found myself, before remembering that we had just moved into our new home. I turned to see my wife, slumbering quietly beside me, then glanced in the other direction. I noticed an indistinct shape of some light color on the bedroom floor and tried to make out what it was. After a moment, I was able to determine that it was a sweater, of what appeared in the dim light to be a yellow color, lying crumpled on the hardwood floor, half over the bedside rug. The thought occurred to me to pick it up and hang it up in the closet, but I just as quickly shrugged off the idea, wondering why I should go to the trouble in my sleepy state rather than just wait till morning. I turned over and soon enough fell back asleep.

  When I next awoke, it was light out and I found myself alone in the bed. I could hear my wife downstairs in the kitchen, making something for breakfast. As I rose from the bed, I noticed that the yellow sweater was not to be seen.

  After washing my face, I joined my wife downstairs. “Morning, love,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek as she prepared French toast. “You sure are up early for Sunday.”

  “Early? It’s almost nine.”

  “Like I said, early for Sunday.”

  “So how did you sleep?”

  “Very good, actually. Only woke up once, for a few minutes. Speaking of which… I saw you picked up that sweater from off the floor. I would have gotten it myself, but it was the middle of the night when I noticed it and I was way too sleepy to get out of bed.”

  “What sweater?”

  “You know… that yellow one.”

  She looked at me quizzically. “I don’t own a yellow sweater, honey.”

  I frowned. “You sure?”

  She chuckled. “Yes, I think I would know if I had a yellow sweater. You know I don’t even like yellow that much.”

  I sat down at the table, the frown still on my face. “Well… did you pick up any sweater?”

  “No, sweetie. Why?”

  I shook my head. “I just… I could have sworn I saw a sweater on the bedroom floor when I woke up last night.”

  “You were probably just dreaming.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I must have been. It’s so weird, though. It really felt like I was awake.”

  “Well, you know, that happens sometimes. I get dreams like that too, where I really think I’m awake, in my familiar surroundings, only to wake up for real and realize I had only been dreaming before. You’re right, it’s weird. That’s the human brain for you. It plays tricks sometimes.”

  “I know, you’re right. It’s just a little bit freaky, you know.”

  The next night I seemed to wake again at some unholy hour, finding myself in the dark bedroom. Like the night before, I turned first to see my wife, contentedly asleep, then turned the other way.

  My breath caught. I saw what appeared to be a young girl, wearing the yellow sweater I had seen the night before. In my half-asleep, half-awake state, I felt the terrible urge to scream rising up in my throat, but then reminded myself I was only dreaming.

  This isn’t real, I thought. It’s just one of those dreams.

  I looked again at the girl. She was sitting on the floor, a few feet away, facing away from me toward the closet. I could not see her face, only her brown hair, tied in two braids, the yellow sweater, a dark-colored skirt, white socks, and black shoes.

  Even though I knew she wasn’t real, the thought occurred to me to talk to her, to ask her who she was and why she was here. But I just as readily dismissed the notion. How silly… why converse with a figment of your own unconscious mind?

  I listened. She seemed to be sitting silently, but after a minute or two I could hear, barely perceptibly, what sounded like crying. I then noticed that her shoulders heaved gently.

  I suddenly felt sorry for her, a strange deep sympathy warming my heart. I closed my eyes.

  Next thing I knew it was morning. I looked at the floor, feeling foolish for doing so, and of course saw no girl, and no sweater.

  I did not mention the dream to my wife that morning before we both headed off to work. Why not? I asked myself after leaving the house. Was I afraid she’d think I’m losing my mind? Or is it just not worth giving her an account of every little strange dream that I have? She’d get bored by it very quickly.

  I also wondered why I should have such similar dreams two nights in a row. I did not usually have recurring dreams, but I suppose anyone could. That’s it, I told myself. Just a bizarre recurring nightmare. Who can explain it? The mind is indeed a mysterious thing.

  But why did I say nightmare? Were the dreams really nightmares? The first one wasn’t scary at all—it was actually rather banal—and the second one, though alarming at first, soon gave way to curiosity and even pity. And yet… as embarrassing at it might have been to admit, and against my better judgment, I felt a slight apprehension about going to sleep that night.

  I lay awake for awhile, well after my wife had dozed off, watching TV, but not really able to pay attention to the shows. Why are you so nervous? I asked myself. I knew it was utterly irrational, but I couldn’t seem to help it. There’s no reason, I said to myself, to be afraid of a dream. Besides, you don’t even know you will ever dream about it again. Maybe that’s it, just those two.

  Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

  In the wee hours, in the dark, I found myself once more lying awake—or seemingly awake—in the bed. As before, I first turned to make sure my wife was there. She was. I didn’t want to look the other way. I tried to control my breathing.

  Don’t you realize how silly you’re being? I thought. This is only a dream. Yes, it feels quite real. It feels like I’m really awake. But it… is… only… a dream.

  My heart froze. I heard, ever so faintly, the sound of a girl quietly weeping.

  I did not want to look. And yet… and yet… I again found my fear overcome by pity. And a searing curiosity. Who was this girl? Why did she seem almost… familiar?

  I summoned my courage. The knowledge that it was only a dream, combined with my sympathy, finally overturned my trepidation. I sat up and looked.

  I was startled to see her sitting much nearer the bed, this time facing me. I still could not see her face, however, since she hung her head as she wept. I noticed for the first time how incredibly pale and thin she appeared.

  I gathered up all my nerve and spoke. “Why are you crying?”

  She didn’t look at me at first. My heart became even less frightened, more soft.

  I tried again. “It’s okay, I’m your friend. Why are you so sad?”

  She slowly turned her head upward and looked at me. Her face appeared, like the rest of her, wan, emaciated, and sad. I felt nothing but compassion for this strange nightly apparition.

  “Don’t you remember?” she said, her voice soft and somehow—I don’t know how else to describe it—hollow.

  “Remember what?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  I gazed at her seriously. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  She sniffed. “I’m you.”

  I stared at her, uncomprehending. “Wh—what?”

  But she only hung her head and started sobbing again, soft and quiet as before.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” she said, and stood and walked out of the bedroom.

  I heard her walk down the stairs.

  When I awoke, I did not remember the dream at first. It did not come back to me until I was on my way to work. Even then, I did not find it so much disturbing as strangely fascinating. What on earth was my mind doing? What was this all about?

  “I’m you.”

  The words haunted me throughout the day. What the hell did that mean? Perhaps it didn’t mean anything. It was just a dream, after all. Who can make sense of them? Why look for rhyme or reason in the brain’s unconscious nighttime scribblings? Why look for logic or sense?

  And yet… and yet…

  Of course I am not the type who believes in ghosts, or anything supernatural for that matter. I know it is all just a dream, if a troublingly reoccurring one. The disquiet I felt had mainly to do with my own mental state. Was I going crazy? Sliding into some dark psychosis? Why is my brain obsessing over this bizarrely random image of a poor sad girl in a yellow sweater? The same yellow sweater every single night? If only I could understand…

  The fourth night in the house arrived, whether I wanted it to or not. This is really getting ridiculous, I thought. Isn’t three nights in a row enough? And it keeps getting weirder each time. What could possibly happen next?

  I, of course, realized in the same moment that was a very foolish question to ask.

  As the night before, I stayed up late watching, or more accurately not really watching, late night TV, knowing full well that I was going to regret it when the alarm went off in the morning. This is so stupid, I told myself. I mean, you have to go to sleep. Just don’t get so worked up about it, man. It’s only a dream.

  Then, laughing at myself, I turned off the tube and lay down in the dark.

  Once more, in the dark and lonesome hours in the middle of the night, I seemed to wake up. My first emotion this time was frustration, almost anger. I kept my eyes closed. Enough of this, I said. I’m going back to sleep.

  But of course, I’m already asleep. This is just another of those weird little dreams. Why won’t my brain just give it a rest already?

  But my brain would not give it a rest. I heard her.

  Not sobbing this time. She only sighed gently, then said, “I lost my ring.”

  I opened my eyes, the sound of her sorrowful, empty voice somehow, again, causing my heart to soften. I turned and saw her, some feet away, near the closet, wearing the same outfit, the same yellow sweater, so thin and pathetic, gazing toward me plaintively.

  “Won’t you help me find it?”

  “Your ring?”

  “It was my favorite. It was Grandma’s ring, you know.”

  I stared at her for a moment. “How do I find it?”

  “You know where it is.”

  “I do?”

  “You remember.”

  She turned and left the room. I heard her walk upstairs to the third floor.

  That morning I woke early, well before the alarm. The light was still dim but the dark was already beginning to be dispelled by the dawn. I looked around and saw no girl, no sweater. My wife lay peacefully beside me.

  I recalled the latest dream—what the girl said about her ring. I remembered that she had gone upstairs.

  Part of me wanted to go up there. Part of me most definitely did not.

  I did not go up there.

  However, I could not stop thinking about it. Despite myself, I felt intensely eager to go up to the third floor, which we were using only for storage, still filled with unpacked boxes, to look for the girl’s ring. The rational part of my mind told myself how utterly laughable that would be.

  But still…

  My wife customarily left for work a little earlier than I did. When we kissed goodbye that morning I did not tell her my plans. How could I? I justified it to myself by explaining that I only wanted to prove to myself how very fantastical and silly the whole thing really was.

  The thought occurred to me to research the history of the house. I brushed it off—as I thought, because of the simple ludicrousness of the notion—although, if I had to be completely honest, it was as much because I did not want to know.

  I ascended the stairs to the second floor. I surveyed the bedroom, the floor, the closet—not a yellow sweater to be seen. See? I said. It’s all in your head. Of course. Why do you even need to be reassured of that?

  Feeling bolder, confident in the light of morning, I ascended the stairs to the third floor. When I reached the door I hesitated. Why? Don’t be an idiot.

  I turned the knob, peered in.

  Of course it was empty. Well, except for all the boxes.

  I stepped in, leaving the door open behind me.

  After a minute or so, I shrugged. The boxes surrounded me, silent and unmoving. I chuckled silently. Why are you even up here? You’re so pathetic.

  And then I had a strange thought. I don’t know where it came from. I suddenly had the uncanny notion that there was a certain cabinet in the room, and in that cabinet a box, and in that box…

  I felt a chill. Must be the draft, I thought.

  I turned to look behind me, nearer the door, at a certain corner of the room—the corner I had in mind. There was a set of cabinets there, but I already knew that. Just my mind being stupid.

  Nevertheless… okay, god damn it, just get this overwith. Prove it all wrong. Expose it to the light of reason, the light of day…

  I walked over to the cabinets. The topmost one… that was the one that some completely irrational, superstitious part of my brain was prompting me to look in.

  I put my hand to the knob… hesitated… opened it.

  I gasped involuntarily. I felt myself, against my will, begin to tremble slightly.

  There, inside the cabinet, was a little wooden box.

  Still, I told myself... just a coincidence. I mean, the odds are pretty good there might be an old box around in one of these cabinets, right? It’s an attic, after all.

  I reached in. I stopped. Why? Did I not want to know? Wouldn’t it be more rational to just leave it to be, to resist the temptation to open it, to justify these silly senseless urgings arising from some deep, childish part of my psyche?

  But no, I said. Of course that is only a rationalization. It’s because you’re scared of what you’ll find. Good God, just open the box and get it over with and have a good laugh at yourself. No one ever has to know.

  I grabbed the box and pulled it out of the cabinet.

  I held it in my hands, staring at it, my skin tingling.

  Just open it!

  I took a breath, then opened the lid.

  I lost my breath. There, sitting inside the box, was a small silver-colored ring.

  My mind whirled. I tried to calm my nerves, tried to understand—

  Just then I felt as though someone were behind me. I heard a girl’s voice.

  “You found it!”

The Lazy Scarecrow: Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Earth was filled with craters.

After a few years, Taylor told Clondike and Fugerson that a great fireball was scheduled to pass by Earth.

"I'm leaving," said Clondike. "It might crash."

"There's no chance of that," said Fugerson.

All of a sudden, a fireball came soaring downward. Taylor and Fugerson ran for the ship that they now caught fish in.

Clondike was looking at the fireball coming toward him.

The ship holding Taylor and Fugerson went toward the moon. Then, they went to Mars.

They saw the fireball crash, then Earth exploded, into pebble-sized pieces.

Then, the rocks formed a ring around the moon, and the moon went into Earth's orbit.

The Lazy Scarecrow 5: The End of the World

The End of the World

An age of ghosts had ended, and an earthling ship landed in the ocean.

"Hey," said one of the astronauts. "This is Cape Canaverel?"

"Remember that band of light we went through? It must have been a time warp," said another, whose name was Fugerson.

The other man, named Clondike, said, "We left in the 4000s. It looks like Florida has sunk."

A piece of land appeared in the distance. A man was on it, waving.

When the spaceship reached land, the man told them he was a foodmaker, and his named was Taylor.

"What year is it?" said Clondike.

Taylor said, "1,000,210 A.D."

"What? It must have been a time warp."

*

Next: Epilogue

The Lazy Scarecrow 4: Expedition—Mars to Earth

Expedition—Mars to Earth

The martians, by the year 9876, had taken over Earth.

A jungle was grown in a part of North America. The west was a dry desert. In the east, a forest had covered the north. The southeast was sunk under water.

In a place where the jungle met the desert, a martian named El Tula Ti lived in his white, ball-shaped house.

One day, El went to the automatic foodmaker, and got a ham and cheese sandwich.

He went to the jungle area to eat it.

Suddenly, a strange person grabbed him. El asked him, "Who are you?"

He answered, "An earthling. My spaceship crashlanded over by the lake. We were exploring the moonbase's secret slab whenever we came to our ship. It went wild, then crashed."

"Where are the others?"

"I'm the only one--wait, four more survived. There was 25 of us."

"Okay. Come with me. I'll take you to my ship."

The five earthlings followed the martian to his house.

Then, El got in. He drove away without them, leaving them in the middle of the desert.

*

Next: The End of the World

The Lazy Scarecrow 3: Last People on Earth

Last People on Earth

One day a bomb tester accidently dropped a bomb on Manhattan. The enemy from France started bombing New York City. But some Russian planes tried to attack. There was nuclear explosions from New York City to Philadelphia.

People went wild on the streets below. Nearly 10,000 died in one day. At night Russian spies walked over the city. An attack troop started shooting at them.

Contaminated people were walking on the streets. Some furred men went underground.

A pair of tan men came out of the forest. A man saw them. "Stick up your hands," they said as they pointed wierd lasers at him.

"We are from Mars," one said. "You are the last person on Earth."

"Come with us."

He said, "No."

They shot him and nobody else was ever born on Earth again.

*

Next:  Expedition—Mars to Earth

The Lazy Scarecrow 2: The Great Rocket Ride

 

The Great Rocket Ride

 

 

Suddenly it got real hot. It felt like the sun was coming to the earth. At Billy's house he saw the sun coming. He ran to his mom and then the earth was burnt up. Birds flew away and alligators drowned themselves.

 

The farmer's son ran out of the house to get his little globe that was being burnt in the bonfire outside. He threw it back in because it was too hot. That weekend he bought a new one. On the globe little dinosaurs were walking around.

 

He picked off the dinosaurs and ran to eat supper.

 

The next day he went to Cape Cernelaverlel. He got on a seat and it started moving. He went into a Malcon D-4 hole. He went through the darkness and came to a staircase. He started to go up the long ladder. He went real slow until he got to the top. Then he went three trillion worlds a second. Finally he stopped. He was standing by a rocket. It said "Leskrypton". He walked around the 100-foot long rocket. He wished he could take a ride in it.

 

His mother told him it was time to go. He wanted to take a picture of the tall, towerlike UFO. He told his mother.

 

She told him no. They walked into a canlike building. There they saw a man. "Welcome to the rocket," he said.

 

Some men with rifles came into the room. One said, "We are the hypnotizers." He shot them with his rifle. They fell into a deep sleep.

 

When they woke up, they were preserved in ice.

 

On Earth, people never saw the rocket again, after it had taken off.

 

* 

 

Next: Last People on Earth

 

The Lazy Scarecrow 1: The Lazy Scarecrow

The Lazy Scarecrow

In the year 2000 A.D. the world was filled with craters because of light speed meteors. The Galactic Empire, Bill Vader, had been sending them since 1990. Once a farmer let a meteor kill his corn, because bugs had attacked it. He built a scarecrow and then his house and city got killed by a very large meteor. The scarecrow was tired and wanted to know what had happened to his farmer.

One day the last and largest meteor of all fell on North America. The sun was turning red now. The oceans boiled up. The year 2000 passed and the lazy scarecrow was still looking for the farmer.

At dusk the scarecrow found a pile of bones on a rock and fit them together. They reminded him of a person, so he stood it up and tried to walk with it. But it fell to the ground and the bones crumbled up. The scarecrow went on to see if he could find the farmer.

The next day the scarecrow woke up at noon and found himself on a beach. An old sign off the road said 'Del Rio Beach is 4 miles away.' The scarecrow knew that Del Rio Beach is in El Salvador, so he knew that that was where he was.

He walked into stones and ruins and said "I must be in Del Rio." He went on into Nicaragua and passed by a ruined city. It seemed like this used to be Ancient Greece.

A few days later he came to a crumpling sign that said 'Welcome to Panama'. He saw a large crow fly over. He jumped up and caught the crow. He hadn't eaten for days, so he ate the crow after he cooked it. He went on and on until he fell into a small hole. He climbed out and walked through a jungle. He had to swim across a creek and into a thicker jungle. Now the highway had turned into a small road. Suddenly a monkey jumped down at him. He took out some hay and ate it. The scarecrow strangled the monkey and forgot why he was walking. He ate the monkey for breakfast. He went over the Amazon on a rope bridge and over the Rio Tapajos on an Alligator. The alligator ate the Scarecrow.

*

Next: The Great Rocket Ride
 

The Lazy Scarecrow: Introduction & Prologue

One of my earliest surviving works of fiction is contained in a slim clothbound book titled The Lazy Scarecrow. I wrote it for a school assignment in 4th grade. Once a week a few of my schoolmates and I rode a bus to a place called the Learning Center, as part of the gifted student program. Each student in the program took three courses at the Learning Center during one semester of the school year, and one of the courses I chose was Creative Writing. The major project for the semester was to write your own story, which would be bound into a book.

I had been writing stories for as long as I knew how to write (since kindergarten), so this was a class and a project that I particularly enjoyed. We were given a list of basic story premises to choose from. The one I selected was a simple enough idea: Write a story about a lazy scarecrow.

Now, most students would probably have done the sensible thing and written a story about... well, a lazy scarecrow. You know, a scarecrow that some farmer puts in his field to scare the crows away, only the scarecrow is too darn lazy to do his job. And maybe how he learns not to be so lazy and how important his job is in protecting the farmer's valuable crops from those pesky crows. It seems unnecessary to explain it as I just did, but I do so to illustrate that this is not at all the story line I came up with. Not by a long shot.

One of my goals and constant challenges as a writer is to be half as creative and imaginative as I was as a child. What I did with this very simple story idea was to take it and transform it into some kind of apocalyptic science fiction epic. That was just how my mind worked, I guess. That kind of wild and unfettered imagination just came naturally to me as a child. It was certainly not the first time I had accomplished such a work of creative transformation of a simple and homey concept. A few years earlier, I would sometimes agree to play "house" with my kid sister, but I ended up turning the erstwhile domestic narrative (at least in my own mind) into... you guessed it... a science fiction epic. (In fact, that childhood fantasy later became the seed of one of my major fiction ideas in adulthood, for an as-yet-to-be-written novel.)

I began writing my lazy scarecrow story in the fall of 1980, and completed it at the end of the semester in January 1981. When the last day of class started, I had not yet completed the story, though I had written much of the draft. One of my classmates and/or the teacher (likely, both working together) had created the actual physical book, which basically consisted of two pieces of cardboard covered by cloth with an appropriately autumnal orange and brown pattern (see photo below). Inside were six sheets of light orange paper, on which I was to write and illustrate my opus.

The 12 pages consist of a title page (see photo at top), a "Prologue", five short stories (or chapters), and an "Epilogue". The stories were supposed to be loosely related, each story an episode in the same future history, stretching from "the year 2000 A.D." to (literally) the end of the world about a million years hence.

As I mentioned, when the last class started, I had not yet finished writing my great work. Actually, when the last class ended, I had still not finished it. When I left the classroom that day, I had committed the first two stories, or chapters, to the orange pages of the book. I had written quite a bit beyond that, though, on other sheets of paper. I believe I must have written the initial draft on those other sheets, then started transcribing my text into the book once it had been put together. However, I did not manage to transcribe the entire text before the last class was over.

While in the classroom, I used a variety of colored pencils to write the text of the book. I can tell exactly where I left off at the end of class that day because at the end of chapter two, the colored pencil stops, and the rest of the book (including the illustration at the bottom of that page) is in regular old gray pencil. (The title page and prologue are also in gray pencil.)

What happened was this: I left the text I had written on the loose sheets with the teacher, who used it to give me a grade for the course (if I remember correctly, I got an A). Then, riding the bus back to my elementary school, I took one of my regular pencils and continued adding words and pictures to the bound book, filling up the remaining pages with three additional chapters/stories, an epilogue, and accompanying illustrations. By the end of the day, I had filled up the book, and The Lazy Scarecrow was complete.

The curious thing is that the text I wrote after leaving class that day is, almost necessarily, not the same as the text I handed in to the teacher (except of course for the first two chapters). I only have a vague idea now as to what the remainder of the original story was like. I recall enough, however, to know that the text of the book, while it has some similarities to the original text, is quite different. Except for the first two chapters, the original text of The Lazy Scarecrow (which I believe was left incomplete) is among the many lost works of my childhood, which far outnumber the few that have survived.

In any case, the surviving work--which is of course the "official" text since it is what I committed to the pages of the book, even though the teacher never got to read the completed work--has remained a source of delight and inspiration to me well into adulthood. Just for example, in 2002 I recorded myself reading the story, set to a musical score that I performed on my synthesizer; in 2006, I named my first blog after the book (that blog no longer exists, though I saved a number of the best posts). 

However, until now, I have never shared this childhood opus with anyone beyond a few friends and family members. And so here, now, I present the first publication of The Lazy Scarecrow, to be presented one chapter at a time (starting today with the prologue). This first edition will present only the text. I would like to scan the drawings for a subsequent online edition, but that will have to wait... for the future.

***

The Lazy Scarecrow

PROLOGUE

A very angry galactic empire, named Bill Vader, started sending meteors to Earth.

A farmer got so angry because of this. He told his son to grow enough corn to last a century.

But in 1998, bugs started to attack it. So the farmer told the empire to throw a large meteor on the field.

So the empire did it, and the farmer got real angry.

***

Next: The Lazy Scarecrow