text: In A Cloud of Solids “A man once spoke of a story pertaining to the Wizard against the machine. He would sit up in his castle, making paintings that he supposedly, considers to be prophecies. Graphic images of a small pixel, a dot, remaining unmovable in a prodigious city as the humans around it began to get ripped apart by a storm so random that the apples that they were eating didn’t leave the air. I seen the pictures myself, I seen the deep reds of the blood, the dark grays of the night, and the speck of white that if you really don’t focus on, seems more like a shimmer of light.” Syrian said, peering over an oak round table, at Jeremy. Jeremy, astonished by the tellings of Syrian, smiled widely, spewing his excitement through his legs, and gleefully kicking and wobbling in his seat. “Jeremy, when are you turning ten might I ask” Syrian says. “I will be turning ten on the next week. My mother’s gonna take me to see the horses with pop” Jeremy replies. “How would you like to go to the gallery with me after, to see the wonderful drawings that all the new artists are making.” “AH THAT SOUNDS WONDERFUL. Can we see some of the paintings that the man you spoke of made?” “Perhaps. I’ll have to check with him, he likes to remain anonymous” Syrian says as the sound of loud creaks graze sharply past their ears. A man enters the pub, draped in the blackest black. One with no reflection, one that if you lost focus in your eyes for even a second, would come off as a shadow to the broad daylight of the outside. His apparel is similar to a grim reaper. Hood on, with no visible face, cloak thick and long enough to mask his legs, making him seem ghoulish. He only catches the gaze of Syrian and Jeremy, hovering over to their table. Chills tickle and ensnare Jeremy’s neck, making him whimper and cry, so he hugs Syrian tightly, and ducks himself in Syrian’s arms. The mystery creature does nothing upon reaching Syrian’s table, only gazing through his own abyss at the hard wood of the table. Syrian, in a casual manner, with his eyes avoiding the creature’s gaze, reaches to scratch his chin, giving it an itch with his hooked index finger. “what are you scared of Jeremy?” Syrian said, and as if it were a dream, the ghoul simply vanished into thin air. Jeremy was trembling in Syrian’s arms, with the erratic waves of tears splashing from his eyes. “Why are you not scared of that man Syrian?” “You believe in god, right Jeremy?” “Yes” “Then why would God allow something to happen to you in the warmth of his presence. We were always safe you see, the sun never moved, it’s warmth was only interrupted.” Jeremy dried his eyes with the cloth of his shirt, sniffling. “I’m feeling much less cold now Syrian.” “Good. Now let’s wait for your mother. Uncle Syrian has some things to do tonight.” Eventually, noon fell, and Jeremy’s mother came for him and took him home. Syrian left and went home. It takes him hours to get home because he lives out of the city, and it’s always raining in his area. Dark and gloomy. Syrian lives in the remnants of a castle with his relative, Cuzz. Cuzz is an artist, He sells paintings and tells tales under the guise of a Bard so that he may earn enough money to get his castle rebuilt. Cuzz used to be a very famous artist, with the ability to predict the future with his paintings. One day, a mob came, blaming him for showing them the truth and believing him to be a sorcerer, they destroyed his castle. Leaving him in ruins with only his art. The castle makes for poor shelter, with the only things standing are the broken high walls and the door, but no roof; easy for rain to flood them in. During the night, Syrian watched Cuzz paint under the tarp of their tent, with Cuzz’s thick white beard and one oversized eye making him seem like an old senile man in a trance. “are you creating more art that you can tell tales of old man.” Syrian asks. “I am creating a very special piece, one that must be seen by everybody big and large, rich and poor. Perfect.” Syrian stares at the canvas, puzzled at its simplicity, for it’s just an apple in a blank space. “How is an apple special, I mean, that’s all there is to it. An apple with no background isn’t it.” Cuzz lifts his paintbrush off the canvas, pausing for a moment. “Tell me. Do you feel when it gets breezy, or when it gets cold or hot Syrian. Has that changed?” “No, it hasn’t. I am very skilled at unfeeling. It must be this damn weather we live in. I wish I could brush this rain off.” Syrian says. “yet you still do not like the rain, it makes you feel cold, an unshakeable feeling. Think of the apple that way. It takes up all of the picture because it is the focus. It is a simple object that somehow finds a way to absorb the empty space around it and feed its own importance. But there is still a border, the canvas is not never ending. It still cannot be the greatest thing in any room it enters.” “Are you saying that the rain is limited? Or that my weakness is the weather, you speak in riddles sometimes. Now that I think about it. If it’s always raining. How do you get your paintings into the city?” “He, you’re just imagining things. Go to sleep Syrian.” Cuzz says. Syrian drifts off to sleep and Cuzz continues to paint the apple, flicking his brush about in swift motions like a shadow imperfectly mimicking his original form, never once wasting an ounce of paint. That is, until he gets to the borders of the apple. He strokes perfectly with just enough paint, yet a drop still splashed on his shoe, a red drop. He tried to wipe the smudge off but it only spread around and expanded, frustrating him deeply and making him panic. In sudden fear and anger, He destroyed the apple painting, tearing it to pieces and lied down trembling. Mumbling to himself about Jeremy. The next morning, Syrian awoke with his usual optimal energy, but he noticed something rather interesting today. The rain had finally stopped, there was no more dripping water on his tarp. He cheerfully jogged into the town to meet with Jeremy, who was with his mother outside of the pub talking to a strange man with Ginger hair and a green beard. The man gave Jeremy an apple and, upon noticing Syrian, scurried away quickly. Jeremy seemed excited to see Syrian, wrapping him tightly in his arms, and they happily walked into the pub with Jeremy on Syrian’s shoulders. “So How was your sleep Jeremy. Fun?” Syrian said “Why yes Uncle Syrian, I had a wonderful dream about a puddle that I got to splash in with you and Grandpa Cuzz.” “Ha Jeremy, you know I don’t really like water all that much, thank god the raining finally stopped around my house.” “Oh but this puddle was special, it always showed the reflection of a big globed ball with green and blues on it no matter how much I stepped in it. It was magical” “Is that right Jeremy, interesting dream.” Syrian stared at the apple Jeremy was given, as he hasn’t taken a bite out of it yet. His eyes were almost entranced by its golden red, it’s swooning colors. “Hey Jeremy, can I have that apple?” Syrian asked. “Sure Uncle, a strange man gave it to me today, but I don’t really like apples.” Jeremy said, reaching his hand out with the apple. Syrian caresses the apple in the palm of his hands, like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he takes a huge bite out of its base, soaking up its juices with his tongue and licking his lips for the escaping liquids. He then notices something outside of the pub window, the man with the green beard and ginger hair is staring at a puddle in the middle of the road and simply shedding tears and roaring his loudest, yet he is ignored by everyone on the street. He seems angry at the water for not showing him what he wants but instead showing him a reflection of a creature with no face. He then drifts his angry gaze from the puddle to Syrian. “Uncle Syrian” Jeremy says, puzzled by Syrian’s frozen face. “Uncle Syrian is there something you see out there?” Syrian then starts to shudder, as he suddenly feels extremely chilly even with the sun outside. He looks back at the apple, which lost its golden shine, and now seems a rotten green, and takes another bite, bigger and using his teeth to crunch its stem. Everyone then, in the glory of God and his warmth, blinked at the same time, and opened their eyes to the see the wrath of the Devil and his hell. A storm ripped through the town so suddenly that Syrian’s apple never hit the table. It destroyed every building and grew the more it ate anything it touched. Cuzz, waking up suddenly with a violent gasp. Looked at his shoe, and seeing that the smudge was no longer there, sobbed heavily. The storm ate everything it wanted and grew until it could not no more. Once the dust settled, everything was gone, everything except a crying little boy and a fading shadow in a cloud of Solids. Particles swiveled in the nothingness, Jeremy trembling on the ground; refusing to look up for fear that everything he’s ever loved is gone. A man in a mysterious tan cloak drags his feet through the ruins, beaming his shadow over Jeremy’s coiled being. “You’re alive...My goodness” he said. Jeremy, shivering, peers up at the man, recognizing his voice. “Grandpa?” “Yes Jeremy, I apologize. This is unfortunately what comes from a battle between the wizard and the machine.”