Flittering filth and glass lenses. The dais waits under fuzzy white light. The podium is propped. The whole of the stage is green. The audience whispers of ghost sightings and Christmas cookies on a white plate with a red and green design. A glass of milk gently shakes; a ripple forms across the top of the liquid. A black morning raid has come to ruin the day.
The city of Epsilon lies in ruins. The man at the podium in the small theater clears his throat and speaks: “Is everyone okay?… I’m afraid there has been a terrible tragedy. We’ve been bombed.”
Whispers flutter among the crowd.
A man stands and exclaims, “Well, isn’t that the thing to do these days!” And he walks out of the theater and into the smoke and debris. People are running and crying, some are screaming. It’s all mad hysteria, man. The man makes it to the local record store and ducks inside. The clerkies are pressed to the window, looking out at the new war in wild wonder. The man’s name is Ethan Duck and he goes to the section of Rush albums and starts flipping through them. He pulls out A Farewell to Kings and studies the cover. The scene looks just like it does outside in the real world.
“They never stop, do they!?” he spits out in anger and frustration.
One of the clerkies turns away from the window. “Sir? Did you need help with something?”
“Yes! I need you to drive me to another planet so I can get away from all these idiots who do nothing but murder and destroy!”
The clerkie whispers to the other, “Should I call the police? He seems absolutely mad.”
The other clerkie scoffs. “He’s not mad, he’s just telling it like it is.” He raises his head and calls out, “I agree with you, sir. Bunch a bloody lunatics.”
Ethan Duck smiles at the fact he has a supporter. He files the Rush album back into its place. He pumps his fists in the air and exclaims, “I am right and ruthless.” He dances around a bit and then walks out the door
The setting sun is mingling with the afterglow of the bombing—a blood red orange color with streaks of black in it. Ethan Duck can see his apartment building in the distance and is glad it still stands. He can see his particular windows and the veranda with the green plants growing tall. Ash floats down from the sky. The dead burn his eyes.
Once inside his apartment, he presses a button on his flashing answering machine. It’s a message from his boss, Glennentine Ross. “Why didn’t you come to work today? Call me back with an explanation. Bye.”
“Fuck him,” Ethan says aloud. “Does he not see the world is in crisis because of dipshit morons? What am I to do? Carry on with life as if nothing is terribly wrong like all these other idiots do?”
The eyes on a painted portrait hanging on a wall come to life. The mouth opens and speaks. “How else are people supposed to act?”
“Get off their timid butts and protest. Stand up for something!” Ethan answers. “Fight these war mongering assholes.”
The woman in the painting sighs. “I’m afraid there is no victory in a world such as this. It’s all fighting. I really believe we were all set aside here on this very planet because we are so ill behaved toward each other. The things these humans do to each other. Heinous.”
Ethan Duck sighs. “It’s exhausting just trying to live.”
“Would you like to come into my world?”
“You could do that?”
“Yes… Close your eyes and focus on somewhere else, somewhere better and brighter.”
Ethan’s soul steps out of his body and into the painting. He is suddenly beside the woman in the portrait, and they are surrounded by nature—rolling green hills, beautiful trees, a pale blue sky with a peaceful sun hanging from it. Ethan breathes it all in. “Where are we?” he asks her.
“The Italian countryside, on another astral plane. Care to smoke some weed?”
And there she is, with a joint (marijuana cigarette) held between her lips. “Here,” she says, and she removes it from her mouth and hands it to him. “It’s good stuff.”
Ethan takes it and smokes. “Damn, I’m already high… And this place is amazing. And you’re quite pretty for a painting.”
“Let’s take a walk,” the painted lady says.
Along a wonderous lane of green brick, they walk. The trees all have faces. Some smile; some frown.
“Where are we going?” Ethan asks. “Is this all real? It seems I can’t differentiate fact from fiction… Or am I just so high that I’m in another world of another world?”
“Don’t try to figure it out. Just go with it, man,” the painted lady says. “Relax. Everything is okay… Look there, a pink waterfall.”
“It must be made out of bubble gum, man.”
“Let’s top off our high tank,” she enthuses.
And then they smoke more. This time from a psychedelic caterpillar-shaped bong she plucks from a tree.
Ethan Duck wakes up in his bed. He sits up and shakes his head.
“Man, that was one hell of a dream,” he says aloud.
He goes to a window and looks out. Everything is as it usually is. There was no bombing, after all. The world is the same. Stained and mundane. The sky is blue and the sun is shining but people are still struggling. He sees it in the aching faces walking along the walkways. Ethan Duck sighs and goes out to look at the painting of the woman in the Italian countryside. He studies the painting closely. The eyes and mouth do not move. Nothing swirls. The backdrop is idyllically serene. It’s just a painting. He pulls it off the wall and studies the backside. Nothing. No doorway. No portal. No escape hatch from this world to another. He hangs the painting back up and is disappointed. He was hoping he could go back to that place someday. But it doesn’t seem so.
“It was all so vivid,” he murmurs.
The next morning, he churns in his bed when the alarm goes off. He must go to work. Why? “Why do I have to sell my life away for so little?” he complains to the mirror as he shaves. “And we all do it. Wasting our entire lives doing something we hate. Oh, there are the lucky few who get to do what they love. Because they have money. But the rest of us, we’re paid just enough to barely get by, just enough to keep us buried in debt, just enough to keep us coming back for more bullshit. I get my paycheck, and then a medical bill takes half of it, so now I’m behind on everything else.” He splashes water on his face to wash away the remaining shaving cream. “What a scam living is… And we’re not even living. We’re being worn down by the system that laughs in the face of human comfort and joy. Everything is a fucking battle. Everything is a fight. And then you just die. Like you never even mattered. You come into this world kicking and screaming and ready to experience it all… And then you go out, battered down, beaten and bent over, used up. What’s the point of all this lifelong struggle.”
Then a figure appears in the mirror behind him. “Hi, hi, hi there,” the painted lady says.
Ethan whips around. “You’ve come back.”
“Yes. I have. You seem so messed up.”
“No. Just trapped.”
“Care to take another walk on the green brick road? … A forever walk?”
“You mean, I’ll never be able to come back?”
“I’ve been listening to you. Why would you want to? You hate your life.”
“You’re right. I do hate my life. I think it every day.”
“Then come with me and leave it behind.”
The green brick road wound up and down, in and out, through and around, all the way to the horizon and beyond to where it ended at the spot of a bright glow.
“That’s the City of Mystic Rhythms,” she said. “That’s where you’ll find work and a place to live.”
Ethan was confused “But… Wait. That’s not what I want.”
She looked at him and smiled. “But that’s all there really is.”
CEREAL AFTER SEX 
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