God Particles

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The humanacles clung to the hull of the ship

Sailing.

Time could be meaningless if Melanie wanted but she was extra careful. One neuronal blip and cause could evaporate, effect lock down hard. Certainty had tanked. No more reliable than a whim anymore.

The thrill had been all that mattered at first, until the first memory was unclear. She’d tried again and again to get his eyes right but she had to let him go. His charm was lost and she’d have always known he was a new him and not the one she'd known.

She’d let them all slip away. Some slowly, some not. Some when her attention was elsewhere. He attention wandered no matter how careful she was.

She wasn’t sure her name was Melanie some days. She might be everyone now. She might be no one at all. Probably both. Or a god. And were there days anymore?

Their sweet tender fruit a-bawl the whole trip

The deck of the schooner stretched fore and aft, the top and the bottom of each sail snapping threads of foam into the night like a whip. The tip of the mast scratched at the heavens, leaving a welt, a laceration in places that winked and blinked in time with her eyes. Observing herself, constantly remaking, lest she be lost in herself.

She and her assistants had played with the strange. Giving names to the new ones, confirming the old. It was all about repetition after all, or else it wasn’t science at all. Smarticles and boojums and quantasums galore. They’d tickled at the notes beneath and struck the chords between.

She tried not to laugh and harder not to cry, condensates stinging her eyes, the wind depositing crusts on her cheeks.

As they withered from hunger so weentsie and thin

The magnetic bottle rolled at her feet, its batteries disconnected, its super-cooled cap hanging by a hinge. Nothing but manifested metaphor but everything just the same. The djinn was out. Worse, the djinn was in and her head throbbed with its comings and goings, its up and its down.

Melanie was center. Had been and now always would be.

Her thoughts spun heaven and twirled hell, this place and none. She longed to remember the world before. To pull them all from the probabilities. To bring the grass back, and the sea.

The people, places, herself, and me.

They entangled themselves and started again

About the Author: 
William Wood writes an entanglement of science fiction and horror from his secret lair in the mountains of Virginia. Truth be told, he does not understand quantum physics and he always will.