fractal dream of bicameral plane
Fiction by Matthew Boylan
The Much Resounding Sea by Thomas Moran, Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington
We stand on a rise above the sea. In her eyes, the fissures, the colours, the fractal, diamond-shaped holes; the skin, the creasing, the murmuring, rising and falling breathing, gasping, fading and falling movements of this awareness, this time, this expanse.
We stand motionless. We revolve around our star, and the days pass. We watch the rain and snow fall as spring and summer and autumn and winter coalesce. We watch it pass. We watch the craters of the moon lighten and darken, the fields grow and die, the roadways crack and partition, the fires fade to coal, the silt settle, the buildings sagging, colours paling, the vines growing, leaves falling, cold and starless, we watch it pass. We see the momentary bright flashes of light in the sky, arcing and dimming, soon gone. We see the sea tumult and crash and froth, we see it lie perfectly still. We see the reflections of innumerable distant lights reflected on its surface. We see the creatures of the deep emerge from that fabric and retreat. We listen to what we can hear. A tree falls, and the plains are still. We pray to something. Our skin loosens. We feel ourselves and wonder. We look into our own eyes. We see all things as we watch time pass until there is nothing left but that cliff and us upon it. We see home. We hold each other closer.
Matthew Boylan is a writer and artist from Guelph, Ontario. In his free time he likes to read, play chess, and spend time with friends. He enjoys reading and writing experimental works. His work has been previously published in the b222 journal, junq, and The Ampersand Review.