Metaphysical Fantasy Fiction for Postmodern Psychologists

This story doesn't take place here.


There is a tiny island floating in a weightless world. All around this island, up, down, left, right, there are small clouds of light, like tangles of Christmas lights viewed from a distance. They represent the entire spectrum of color, but this (evening? morning?) moment they give of an emergent amber glow that would remind one of a sunset, had they ever seen one.

A being floats amongst the clouds. It has never seen a sunset for Itself, but is now reminded of them none the less. It has a body similar to a human, but It is airy, ethereal, and sexless. It is floating gently on the currents of this strange ocean, in between the crossfading clouds of color. It is the gardener, and It tends Its garden well.

It floats up to one of the clouds, a tiny swarm of pink fireflies transitioning into orange. Gently, carefully It reaches into the cloud and pulls out a single speck of light no bigger than one of the grains of sand that make up Its island home. It holds the speck up to It's eye and inspects it for flaws. This one has many flaws, but looks to be promising regardless.

It crushes the speck between Its fingers and finds Itself floating through a living room circa 1994, somewhere in Minnesota. Immediately the flaws are apparent. Only a few of the picture frames have anything distinguishable in them, and there are whole sections of the room that simply do not exist. But, it is still a good specimen. The focus of the room sharpens around the figure of a man, mid-twenties, sitting on a couch surrounded by four children. He is reading aloud in Czech from a large family Bible. The passage is Luke chapter two. Yes, this is a good one.

The room dissipates and It is floating once more in the ocean of memory. The speck reforms itself in It's hand and It returns the speck to its home in the cloud. It continues floating, allowing the current to carry It, but never straying too far from the island. It has been doing this work for a very long time, and It is very good at it.

It floats past two clouds exchanging lights. The tiny flashing points rush between them like a minuscule freeway. These two get along well. Further on there is a cloud that floats between others, taking lights from every cloud it passes. It follows this little thief, and It wonders if this is something that begs intervention. But, the thieving cloud stops next to two smaller clouds and begins to fade through colors rapidly. It jettisons points of light, injecting them into the smaller clouds, which then absorb the colors into their own spectrum. There is no need for weeding here. Storytellers are crucial to keeping the ecosystem vibrant, and ensuring that the spectrums in one particular area are generally aligned.

It continues floating and stops next to a lop-sided cloud. There is a place inside of this cloud that will not light. It has seen this before, sometimes this requires action, but first It will explore. It reaches into the cloud and grabs a handful of the faulty lights. It squeezes them between Its fist.

Pain. Fear. No. Please.

These can remain unlit. The cloud will survive longer without them. It considers pruning for a moment, but then again, sometimes these darkened specks are re-lit later on and blended into the other colors. Some of the brightest clouds have become such by reincorporating these dark places. It decides to leave the unlit mass in the cloud and hope for improvement.

It turns away now, back to the island. It lights on the island's sand and rests for a moment, gazing at the eternal light show that is Its world, Its home, Its charge. It rises again, and floats toward the center of the small land mass. Barely visible in the center of the island, there is a sprout. The sprout is green, is alive. It reaches down and pats the sand around the sprout's roots, smiling to Itself. Its little living thing is growing up.

There is a rustling sound coming from the ocean. It turns and looks for the source. There, just a few yards away, four clouds are clustering around a large one. It flies to the cluster of clouds, watching, waiting for It's moment. The large cloud is ripe, and the other clouds know this. They are all huddled around, receiving as many lights as the large cloud is able to expel. The large cloud flickers a couple times, fades to a dim glow, and goes out. The other clouds stay for a moment, but soon they turn to one another. The exchange lights and colors that one received from the large, ripe cloud but others didn't. In this way, the spectrum of the ripe cloud will never be lost.

It waits until the other clouds have mostly moved on. Then, it begins to scoop the dead cloud into Its arms. It carries the cloud back to the island and alights near to the sprout. It is lucky to have found a ripe one so close. It places the cloud at the base of the sprout and pats it down firm. It then places Its palms flat on the sand around the sprout and presses. The lights from the ripe cloud shine brilliantly, and then begin to fade out around the edges. The sprout in the middle begins to glow faintly as the light of the dead cloud is absorbed. It swears that It could almost see the sprout growing these past few feedings.

It takes a moment to revel in Its little sprout, the hope of the future. Then, It returns to the currents of the vast ocean of memory.