C4 antho - Chamber Four
C4 antho - Chamber Four C4 antho - Chamber Four
~280~ The Chamber Four Fiction Anthology catastrophe. A disaster. A conflagration. A holocaust. Something arduous. Something wearisome. We begin to count bodies. A Cadillac. A Honda. A Mercedes. A Nissan. A VW. A Saturn. The bed is cool and hard and aerodynamic. Thirty miles to the gallon. Some kind of hybrid. Something more than a bed. It rotates in our showroom. We have lost the keys. At noon it is bright. This is not helping. This changes nothing. We have been skipping lunch. This makes us dizzy. This makes us grumble. Our work suffers. We have been warned. The one in person. The other in writing. We examine the bed like a body. We could have returned it. We had thirty days. It has no lumps. It does not sag. It has no cysts. No tumors. No blemishes. No valleys. It has no canyons. No moraines. No ridges. No rifts. The bed has no topography. The bed has no landscape. The surface is clean. As if we have never been there. Not yet. Like a tomb. If we could open it. Slip ourselves in. We have heard stories. We know they are lies. A sarcophagus. Behind glass. Protected by alarms. The bed like an artifact. Protected by a curse. We watch it from the doorway. The bed like an altar. An unearthed foundation. A plinth supporting history. The bed supports us. The bed is firm. Firm enough. It is firm enough for that. The bed is solid. The bed is strong. It undermines us. Makes us ashamed. We cannot stand up straight. We are weak. We are enervated. We have grown pale. We should hang in the closet. Creased and faded. Stained. Pilled. Snagged. Shapeless. We should slip from the hanger. Pooled. It is like no other bed. None that we have known. We sensed its singularity. We had our shoes off. We thought it said Sleep. We know we were wrong. We can admit this. We know we misheard. We know. We know it. There was flute music. We had our shoes off. Children bouncing beside us. On another bed. We tried that one. It was too soft. Our socks had stripes. We did not know they had holes. The children did somersaults. Barrel Rolls and Seat Drops.
The Abjection ~281~ Corkscrews. Cat Twists. Our eyes were closed. We thought the bed whispered. We thought we heard Sleep. It did not whisper Sleep. The bed whispers nothing. The bed is mute. The bed does not creak. The bed absorbs. The bed muffles. The bed stifles. The bed chokes. The bed silences. The bed emanates silence. The bed is zero. It inspires contemplation. White. Still. Silent. Flat. Patient. Moon. Star. Void. These are not the qualities we were seeking. Not quite. The bed feels distant. We are still making payments. Now they are late. Night is over. Our eyes are open. We are not sleeping well. We will attempt an analogy. The bed feels like stone, says the one. Like wood, says the other. We will not say steel. The bed seems natural. We agree on this. We argue. We argue the qualities of wood and of stone. Durable, says the one. Flexible, says the other. Grain. Seam. Fibrous. Foliated. We apply these to the surface of the bed. This comes to nothing. The bed is resistant. It unsettles wood. It muddles stone. The bed ramifies. We argue. It is not the first time. We know nothing. We don’t know. We are furious. We lie still. Time passes. The world grows more uncertain. Something happens. The one reconsiders wood. The other reappraises stone. We sense these changes. They warm us like fever. The bed embraces the changes. The changes in us. The bed does not change. The bed does not embrace us. It is not a bed that embraces. No caress or consolation. The bed has no tenderness. Its embrace is conceptual. But the bed is not a concept. The bed is real. It is hard on our backs. On our joints. It crushes our genitals. The bed seems less and less like wood or stone. A bit more like steel. An object forged to do violence to our bodies. The bed is not natural. We can admit this. The bed is a scourge. The bed is wrathful. We feel compelled. As by a spring. As by a catapult. We are propelled into the air. Our feet are driven to the floor. The floor is cold and hard. Our feet are bare and tender. It is a cruel bed. We can admit this. We are behind on our
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The Abjection ~281~<br />
Corkscrews. Cat Twists. Our eyes were closed. We thought the<br />
bed whispered. We thought we heard Sleep. It did not whisper<br />
Sleep. The bed whispers nothing. The bed is mute. The<br />
bed does not creak. The bed absorbs. The bed muffles. The<br />
bed stifles. The bed chokes. The bed silences. The bed emanates<br />
silence. The bed is zero. It inspires contemplation.<br />
White. Still. Silent. Flat. Patient. Moon. Star. Void. These are<br />
not the qualities we were seeking. Not quite. The bed feels<br />
distant. We are still making payments. Now they are late.<br />
Night is over. Our eyes are open. We are not sleeping well. We<br />
will attempt an analogy. The bed feels like stone, says the one.<br />
Like wood, says the other. We will not say steel. The bed<br />
seems natural. We agree on this. We argue. We argue the<br />
qualities of wood and of stone. Durable, says the one. Flexible,<br />
says the other. Grain. Seam. Fibrous. Foliated. We apply<br />
these to the surface of the bed. This comes to nothing. The<br />
bed is resistant. It unsettles wood. It muddles stone. The bed<br />
ramifies. We argue. It is not the first time. We know nothing.<br />
We don’t know. We are furious. We lie still. Time passes. The<br />
world grows more uncertain. Something happens. The one<br />
reconsiders wood. The other reappraises stone. We sense<br />
these changes. They warm us like fever. The bed embraces the<br />
changes. The changes in us. The bed does not change. The<br />
bed does not embrace us. It is not a bed that embraces. No caress<br />
or consolation. The bed has no tenderness. Its embrace is<br />
conceptual. But the bed is not a concept. The bed is real. It is<br />
hard on our backs. On our joints. It crushes our genitals. The<br />
bed seems less and less like wood or stone. A bit more like<br />
steel. An object forged to do violence to our bodies. The bed is<br />
not natural. We can admit this. The bed is a scourge. The bed<br />
is wrathful. We feel compelled. As by a spring. As by a catapult.<br />
We are propelled into the air. Our feet are driven to the<br />
floor. The floor is cold and hard. Our feet are bare and tender.<br />
It is a cruel bed. We can admit this. We are behind on our
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