Microscope A novel in degrees
Ryan Fitzgerald
1.
It had been waiting a long time. It had been sat there, and lots of words that started with un floated before it, like a dream. It had been left unfulfilled. Thoroughly unrustled. Unloved. Unnoticed. Sometimes someone would pay attention. Have a little grope. It did its thing; let them run their hands up and down its spine. Bend it backwards and forwards. Lick their fingers softly before turning it – well, you don’t need to know all the details. Suffice to say, no one ever committed. It had been left of the shelf, and it was getting old. There was always something newer, prettier, pretty much made of plastic tit to toe. It sighed and watched as they were taken away, as they spawned replicas of themselves, smaller, but otherwise a perfect copy, and as these replicas were taken away. It grew disillusioned. Started to see things. In the darkness at night, it hardly moved. It couldn’t breathe. It saw the signs, as all of us do, of impending redundance. They were there, bright and in-yer-face garish. People had to duck beneath them. But it prompted something – suddenly, more people were paying attention. They seemed, if not charmed, then softened by its old age. Perhaps it now seemed more...authentic...than its plastic counterparts. Perhaps people longed for that time so long ago when things were simpler, when the days were longer and brighter, when things didn’t cost so damn much. And so, one day, it was sold.
2. Now, it, on the other hand, had no such trouble. They just couldn’t get enough of it. It was sleek, shiny, beautiful. They loved rolling it in their hands, rubbing its ni--well, you get the point. And placed there, right beside it, were all the tools they could ever need to fill it and get the juices flowing. Black, brown, yellow, red – it didn’t care. It took them all, and boy, did they love it. But, of course, it was only for show. No one ever took it home. They used it, sure, and ooh’d and aah’d, but never did they take the committal plunge. It knew no such intimacy. Always, without fail, its fellows would be shipped off for a better life, whilst it remained behind and helped them go. It felt like its entire life would be spent trapped in this glass cabinet – though of course, this wasn’t strictly true. But it hated its breaths of fresh air as much as those spent in chains. When they were closed down, it finally got its chance. It rolled off the counter. He saw it lying on the floor and bent down. He checked, and, sure enough, it was useable. Looking left and right to check no one was watching, he stole it away.
3. When they met, it was like they had never been apart. One yielded to the other with arching pleasure. This is my first time. Don’t worry. I think I love you. This feels so much more meaningful than ever before. Promise me you’ll never leave me. Promise me you’ll never love another. I love you. I love you. By the time they had finished, they knew what they had been waiting for their whole lives.
4. They were laid out beside each other on the table. The table was bored. That sure looked fun. They gasped. They didn’t know that the table had been watching. What was it you guys were doing? They quickly looked at each other, but chose to remain silent. After all, there was nothing left to say. Oh, I see. Exclude me, because I’m made of wood. Thicker. Denser. The table had a deep voice. It spoke slowly. It was clearly miserable. The pad took pity on it. Oh, table, it’s not your table-ness that makes us hate you. If only you could be happier. The pen decided to chip in. Yeah, I mean, come on, it’s not like you ever die. What will we do when the pad runs out of pages? What about the everincreasing demand for computers and the internet? No one needs pads anymore. No one except me, of course. Thank you, pen. It’s quite alright. If not for you, I would be quite useless too. We belong together. For now and forever. Would the two of you shut up? It’s bad enough that my love is always too far to touch without you going all lovey-dovey on me. Is that why you’re so miserable? Unrequited love? The chairs...they never...reach out. The table was on the verge of tears. The chair screamed.
5.
The two men pulled the chairs back and sat on them. One pushed the pad across to the other, who picked it up and cast a critical eye over what had been written. ‘The other’, that being the one currently in possession of the pad, was missing both his eyes. Instead, where a false eye – or eyes – might have been, was/were two black holes with golf-balls stuck in them. The golf-balls had pupils and irises drawn on them; one blue and the other yellow. Whether or not the man had, before losing his eyes, had similarly coloured eyes, is not within the scope of this novel to speculate. You can decide for yourself. It might help you to picture such a man if you were to draw him. If your level of artistic skill is below par – excuse the golfing theme – then perhaps you have a friend who can take your place. Beneath is my impression of what he might look like, but feel free to use your own:
As you may be able to tell, I do not have any friends, let alone those with artistic merit. And so, the golf-ball-eyed man was looking – as best he could – at the pad. He was eagle-eyed. Which is quite a bit below-par. Which, incidentally, doesn’t make much sense –
below-par meaning of inferior stature, yet below-par meaning putting your ball in less strokes than deemed acceptable for that particular hole. One of the freak accidents of the English-language, much like the freak accident that resulted in this poor fellow from losing his eyes. Whatever that may have been. Since, as I’ve already stated, I won’t be speculating on his history, except to say that he is born in the near-distant future. The rest is classified, but, alas, not clarified.
6. So, what do you think? I think I can’t read it. Yeah, and...? And I think you’re stupid. But probably not as stupid as me. I mean, what sort of ridiculous person am I? Look at me. I look like an idiot.
7. I apologise if this ever gets printed and you’ve paid money for it. I might suggest, however, that in the event of your boiler breaking and the subsequent misfortune of you being categorically unable to fix it for a period that is unacceptable to you due to inclement weather conditions, that you could use the pages as kindling. Except, I have been reliably informed that books make awful material for fires.
8. And so our pair continues their discussion. The pages of the pad are filled with nonsense, but the golf-ball-eyed man cannot tell this. The pen longs for the pad. The table longs for the chair. And upstairs, a crook is making off with the aspiring writer’s TV. He hops out of the window and scales the wall. The thief is, of course, part lizard, which makes climbing far easier than would have otherwise been the case. In case you are wondering why I have decided to put each chapter on a new page, it’s because as an English student, I loved the feeling of turning a page, only to discover that one of the two new leaves facing me were less than fully written upon. It made reading unbearably long novels much more fun – YES! Rather than 3,540 pages, it’s more like 3,537 once you’ve taken into account the blank spaces which are sometimes only a line or two long, but nonetheless contribute to a far lower page-count although I guess using the word ‘far’ is a step too far. Something else I hated was the difference between American and English use of speech marks. American’s use “”s, whilst the English use ‘’s; especially when essay-writing, it pissed me off. Thus, italics are my mode of designating that speech is occurring. Why not look back and see how that complicates the previous passage in which I implemented italics but there was no clear person speaking? Unless, of course, it was our lizard-thief, who also happens to be a king; the lizard king. It’s because he’s part human. He can stomp on other lizards. Well, not giant ones like komodo dragons. But those sort are his army. He rides them sometimes. If they’ll let him. If they won’t, he can sometimes bribe them with the TVs he
steals from unsuspecting aspiring-writers and their golf-ball eyed friends. And, just as a treat, I’ll end this chapter here.
9. Look at all that blank space.
10. So, to the matter at hand. The lizard-thief-king made his way back to his castle. His komodo dragon army had revolted. They had seized his princess and locked his son in the dungeons. They would free both if he allowed them to execute him. Shit happens. He turned away and walked off into the sunset.
11. The son, on the other hand, was not so lucky. His last sun-set had been thirteen years ago. The komodo dragons had left him to rot, and part of his thigh had melted away in disgust. Things were not looking good for him. He was about to give up. And then he gave up.
12. See, now I’ve started doing these crazy-short chapters, I just can’t stop. If this book has been sold to you then you are responsible for murdering trees. I urge the publisher to change the formatting in order to save lives.
13. See, now I’ve started doing these crazy-short chapters, I just can’t stop. Of course, since this is solely an internet thing, no trees were harmed in the production of this novel. Rock on the empty pages.
14.
[I urge the publisher to delete whichever chapter is the least appropriate dependent on the existence or otherwise of real, physical books]
15. And so, the castle fell to the komodo dragons. Predictably, they grew lonely and embittered. They fought amongst themselves, until one rose above them all and united them once again. Had they forgotten the strife of their ancestors? Had they forgotten why they owned the castle, and most of the Northern Hemisphere? Was it not time to take the South? Most komodo dragons that were still breathing by the time this great speech ended agreed that it was the divinely inspired fate of the komodo dragon to rule the world. With the hurrah’s and cheers rising louder and louder, our camera pans up, to reveal the roof of the castle. It is lined with turrets and archers who pierce apples with their arrows as they fall to the floor, pinning them to trees before they hit Newton on his head. It is in this way that the komodo dragons prevented the discovery of gravity.
16. Somewhere completely elsewhere: the sea. Waves roar as lightning flashes and thunder sounds. There is a huge wind kicking ass, crushing mermaid skulls and levelling lighthouses. The ships, no longer siren’d or directed, float aimlessly like hundreds of bloated corpses. Things get really dark and grim and gritty all of a sudden. A man with stubble. Smoking. He looks at the camera and says, in a monochrome voice, She came into my office on a Sunday afternoon. I’d just closed a major case, so I was having a celebration. Gin. On the rocks. Mixed with crushed glass. She asked for my help. It was the voice of an angel. We see a woman dressed in red walk into a spotlight. She turns all of a sudden, like so many James Bonds, and gasps. Instead of the blood-trickle and shaky sniper-scope, a gust of wind sweeps us backwards and before we know it, she is upon us with her red lipstick and sweaty palms, ripping open our shirt. The buttons patter down on the cold glass floor. Beneath us, hundreds of faces look up and see our hairy buttocks clench as she pulls our trousers down to our ankles.
17. That was how we met Miss Jones. The curvature of her body as she lies beside us is like a perfect parenthesis (or: a beautiful bracket). She doesn’t move when we place our cold hand against her back. She doesn’t care when we stand up and pull our trousers back on. She doesn’t even look when we shine the torch in her face to make sure she’s still alive after that ear-drum bursting orgasm. Indeed, she is, but she turns away. Only a one night stand. We didn’t care. She was just Miss Jones to us. A one night stand. We really didn’t care. We won’t meet her again, so it’s fine. One night stand. Probably the best situation for all concerned really. Night stand. We bump into the night-stand as we leave. Stand. She does stand eventually, to stop the night-stand from falling over. She cares more about that than us. We don’t care at all. We really don’t care. But we can’t shake that image of her body. It reminds us of a road, a motorway, something. And then there we are, driving along it at night, headlights ahead of us, headlighting the way ahead. The motorway bisects the country. It was used for tanks once. It is rarely used for anything now.
18. The country is afloat in the sea that raged. The sea is calmer today, and the komodo dragons sail south, searching for that elusive treasure, world domination. The private detective can no longer speak, alcohol and crushed glass shredding his throat, and Miss Jones has married the golf-ball-eyed man. Everyone is happy.
19. A huge motherfucking planet hulks up to ours. It’s big, red, and angry. It doesn’t like jokes and it doesn’t like weaklings. And our planet is a weakling.
20. Before anyone can do anything------
21. In space, a huge motherfucking planet licks its lips. It looks even angrier than before. It goes off in search of a bigger, better planet. Something tastier. Maybe something with raisins.
22. The end. No, seriously. I’m not kidding. That huge motherfucking planet ate all my characters. I haven’t got anyone left to write about. So, please, let this novel end with dignity. It’s the least you could do.