Eternity in Tedium
By E.S. Wynn
When the fabric between realms caught fire, Dana was the only one who didn’t see it, didn’t feel it. While others were sucked violently into places that lay between or saw their very reality melt away in a dripping haze of mobius donuts and melting coffee cups, Dana saw only the letters and the numbers ticking across her computer screen, ordinary invoices handled and processed repetitively, one after another, one after another, one after another until the next stack came. While others stared, laughing hysterically at hands that bulged with alien color or cried out on the edge of hairy, sweaty abyssal gulfs, Dana’s fingers tapped away at the solid keys of the aging diehard computer that had lurked monolith-like in her office for as long as she could remember. Reality never cracked for her, never changed, even while the whole of reality folded in on itself and collapsed to a pinpoint of golden light, Dana continued to type, to review the numbers, perpetually tired but not exhausted, the clock on the wall ticking but never changing time. Even now, as the final moments of the universe approach like a steady tide, as the condensed nature of the heavens coalesces toward a hazy rebirth of colors and ethnic music and donuts and false prophets, Dana continues to type, glances up at the clock, sighs. Her day has only just begun.
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E.S. Wynn can see the future. Maybe.
By E.S. Wynn
When the fabric between realms caught fire, Dana was the only one who didn’t see it, didn’t feel it. While others were sucked violently into places that lay between or saw their very reality melt away in a dripping haze of mobius donuts and melting coffee cups, Dana saw only the letters and the numbers ticking across her computer screen, ordinary invoices handled and processed repetitively, one after another, one after another, one after another until the next stack came. While others stared, laughing hysterically at hands that bulged with alien color or cried out on the edge of hairy, sweaty abyssal gulfs, Dana’s fingers tapped away at the solid keys of the aging diehard computer that had lurked monolith-like in her office for as long as she could remember. Reality never cracked for her, never changed, even while the whole of reality folded in on itself and collapsed to a pinpoint of golden light, Dana continued to type, to review the numbers, perpetually tired but not exhausted, the clock on the wall ticking but never changing time. Even now, as the final moments of the universe approach like a steady tide, as the condensed nature of the heavens coalesces toward a hazy rebirth of colors and ethnic music and donuts and false prophets, Dana continues to type, glances up at the clock, sighs. Her day has only just begun.
- - -
E.S. Wynn can see the future. Maybe.
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