In His Throne by Harlen Rembert S ECOND P LACE
74
He finds himself still sitting in the driveway, in the same lawn chair, from the same warm, sun-soaked garage. It is his throne, for he is the ruler of his own invisible world. A world which he is no longer sure he can know, or even see distinctly. In two years’ time, he fell into more than he ever imagined. He discovered a group of people, different from him, yet impossibly similar, like members of a foreign civilization living next door, looking out at the same street. He fell headfirst into a whirlpool of color, skin as soft as lace, eyes like gems yet to be polished, brilliant within, only encased in a film of dust. He fell into the realization that the greatest gem of all is found under the most dirt. In his mind, a projector runs, replaying every moment, every memory preserved in spiritual celluloid. He watches the movie he has made, and begins to wonder if it ought to have been redone, scene by scene, take after take, if it is all only one installment in a never-ending franchise, or if it ever really happened that way at all. A firefly blinks in the murk under a tree, a friend coming back from the numbness which never seemed to end. Gradually, like sparks drifting up from a dying fire, another blinks, and more follow. He reaches out his hand, enclosing one gently, tentatively, within his fist. It crawls out, its antennae waving, and flies off. So does the next one that comes by, and the one after that, and the next one. They don’t need him in order to fill the crevices of the dusk with their glow. Each of them flies through the world, winking at each other, not caring whether or not he watches,
