Her Scales Shine Like Music Read Free

labeled depression. “Malaise” fit the bill nicely. When night settled in, I felt grateful. Sometimes sleep is the best way to surf time.
    But my snores got interrupted by rattling sounds on the domed ceiling above me, so I wasn’t shocked when I awoke the fifth day, squeezed through my shelter’s entrance membrane, and found the gifts nature had brought me. Small and slippery icy pellets coated the ground. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” I muttered, a line from an antique movie I’d watched days ago. The temperature hugged Fahrenheit at the thirty mark, and it seemed wise to stay indoors until the mess thawed somewhat, likely a matter of only a few hours, assuming the usual mid-morning equatorial heat wave of merely chilly air.
    Gripping myself by the scruff of the brain, I went back inside and buckled up to work on a poem. I got this far:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â The bittersweet memory of a not-yet-frozen, forgotten tomorrow.
    Liked the way it rolled off the mental tongue. I modified it:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Bittersweet, the memory of a not-yet-frozen, forgotten tomorrow.
    That had a stronger beat, and I felt the phrase resonated with the right frequency of loneliness. Its meaning burned clear to me, evoking childhood hopes and dreams that were abandoned but lingered on. Still, would this come across to anyone else, should anyone else ever read it?
    I put doubts aside, and tried to come up with the next line. Time passed, bringing me nothing. Finally, in hopes of getting things sliding, I took a random stab.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â In that space between space, which no time can erase …
    No. Wrong direction, I warned myself, and what’s with suddenly breaking out in a bad case of rhyme?
    Second attempt, a half hour later:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Here, here I walk in the chill,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â In the chill twilight of the soul,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Where the heart hides its own pulse lest its secrets …
    Lest? What the hell was wrong with me? Perhaps my creativity and I should exeunt rather than leave my shelter …
    Outside, the hailstone marbles had morphed into a layer of slush; gray rivulets of runoff trickled toward the lake. The heavy clouds had thinned, those remaining had dressed for the opera, preening ostrich feather streamers. The local sun felt like a blessing on my bare face, and with luck would keep me company long enough to dry my supposedly self-cleaning clothes, which badly needed cleaning. Having a body of water so near my front door had advantages, and the smart material, despite its stay-fresh limitations, rejected salt.
    I slogged some 680 soggy meters to determine if the storm had shifted the hidden, motion-activated microcams spying on the abandoned paraphernalia. It hadn’t, although they certainly dripped. I could’ve checked on them from my shelter, but bathing my eyes in mysteries refreshed my sense of wonder, and somewhat eased my restiveness. I would’ve spent far more time staring at the alien junk if it didn’t tug on my curiosity like an addiction. The war between cupidity and curiosity was already too close to a tie.
    I suspected that one object, emplaced on a smallish mound, was some form of power supply or generator. It stood a good meter taller than me—and I’m anything but short—appeared barrel-shaped with a flat top, and had what I guessed were sockets designed for massive cables. The way the soil around it bulged made me think it had sunk at least half a meter. If so, it had to be heavy as hell, a hell made of lead.
    That night, my main battery had recharged enough for me to use my virtual system, watch recorded shows, or play immersive games. I tried, but after a dozen attempts nothing gripped me. I turned the device off, lay in bed, and stared up at my ceiling. Only five days, and my life here already