When in Doubt
Title: When in Doubt: My Friend the Pickaxe Prelude
Type: Original fiction, work in progress
Rating: NR
Disclaimer: Copyright Grace Singer
My Friend the Pickaxe Prelude
Seamus offered the pickaxe a beer.
At the time it seemed like a normal sort of thing to do. Kick back a beer with an old friend. Though the pickaxe wasn't really an old friend. It was a necessity lately. Not a lot of the beasties wanted to tangle with a crazed boy and his talking pickaxe; though Shay was never sure the beasties could hear or even understand the pickaxe.
It didn't have a name, this pickaxe. That was the strange thing. It said humans like to name things. It commented so nonchalantly on the subject. "I don't have a name. Don't need one. Even calling me pickaxe is kind of insulting."
The boy didn't argue with the axe and sipped his beer.
"Are you even listening," the pickaxe asked.
"Yep," Shay replied. "Thing is, I don't really care."
"You wouldn't. Use me, use me, use me. Would it kill you to pretend to care about my feelings."
"You're a pickaxe," the boy answered, as if this weren't obvious. "You can't honestly tell me you're having some kind of existential crisis over being labeled by a human."
"Fuck you. You wouldn't know anything about it. You were labeled at birth. You're so used to the convention of being named that you can't help but name everything in your path."
"And what's so bad with having a name?" Seamus finally jumped into the argument.
"It's all well and good for you. Tiny brains. That's your problem. Your consciousness isn't even big enough to fill a Mason jar. You can't communicate without names and titles. You wouldn't understand the transcended language of ultimate being."
"Ultimate being?" the boy said, taking a big swig of his beer. He figured the pickaxe was bullshitting him now.
"Oh yeah. Ultimate being. That which moves and flows through all. You can't understand it if you've never attained it. Being an inanimate object, I'm house to all sorts of things. The universe flows through me at all times. I am aware. You are nothing."
"I'm obviously not nothing," the boy answered, feeling a little drunk. Since the terror began, beer seemed a mite stronger than it used to be. In fact, it was as if all alcohol tripled in proof. He giggled. "Here I am."
"Having a corpus and half a brain doesn't mean you exist," the pickaxe said, his tone deliciously condescending.
"Dude, now you're just fucking with me."
"To truly exist," the pickaxe interrupted, as Seamus had his finger raised as if to make a point next, "you must give up your mortal body and become one with the ultimate being."
"You are so full of shit."
"I am full of nothing so base as shit," the pickaxe replied calmly. "You're just not ready to become one with the all knowing."
"Fuck that noise. I'm ready."
"You're ready to kiss this all goodbye and enter the ether?"
"Sure," Seamus replied, two or three more swigs had the room swaying and a permanent giggle at the corner of his smile, ready to break free at the merest suggestion of a joke.
"Pick me up," the pickaxe instructed. It waited until Seamus had it firmly in grip before speaking again. "Do yourself a favor. Aim for the heart."
Type: Original fiction, work in progress
Rating: NR
Disclaimer: Copyright Grace Singer
My Friend the Pickaxe Prelude
Seamus offered the pickaxe a beer.
At the time it seemed like a normal sort of thing to do. Kick back a beer with an old friend. Though the pickaxe wasn't really an old friend. It was a necessity lately. Not a lot of the beasties wanted to tangle with a crazed boy and his talking pickaxe; though Shay was never sure the beasties could hear or even understand the pickaxe.
It didn't have a name, this pickaxe. That was the strange thing. It said humans like to name things. It commented so nonchalantly on the subject. "I don't have a name. Don't need one. Even calling me pickaxe is kind of insulting."
The boy didn't argue with the axe and sipped his beer.
"Are you even listening," the pickaxe asked.
"Yep," Shay replied. "Thing is, I don't really care."
"You wouldn't. Use me, use me, use me. Would it kill you to pretend to care about my feelings."
"You're a pickaxe," the boy answered, as if this weren't obvious. "You can't honestly tell me you're having some kind of existential crisis over being labeled by a human."
"Fuck you. You wouldn't know anything about it. You were labeled at birth. You're so used to the convention of being named that you can't help but name everything in your path."
"And what's so bad with having a name?" Seamus finally jumped into the argument.
"It's all well and good for you. Tiny brains. That's your problem. Your consciousness isn't even big enough to fill a Mason jar. You can't communicate without names and titles. You wouldn't understand the transcended language of ultimate being."
"Ultimate being?" the boy said, taking a big swig of his beer. He figured the pickaxe was bullshitting him now.
"Oh yeah. Ultimate being. That which moves and flows through all. You can't understand it if you've never attained it. Being an inanimate object, I'm house to all sorts of things. The universe flows through me at all times. I am aware. You are nothing."
"I'm obviously not nothing," the boy answered, feeling a little drunk. Since the terror began, beer seemed a mite stronger than it used to be. In fact, it was as if all alcohol tripled in proof. He giggled. "Here I am."
"Having a corpus and half a brain doesn't mean you exist," the pickaxe said, his tone deliciously condescending.
"Dude, now you're just fucking with me."
"To truly exist," the pickaxe interrupted, as Seamus had his finger raised as if to make a point next, "you must give up your mortal body and become one with the ultimate being."
"You are so full of shit."
"I am full of nothing so base as shit," the pickaxe replied calmly. "You're just not ready to become one with the all knowing."
"Fuck that noise. I'm ready."
"You're ready to kiss this all goodbye and enter the ether?"
"Sure," Seamus replied, two or three more swigs had the room swaying and a permanent giggle at the corner of his smile, ready to break free at the merest suggestion of a joke.
"Pick me up," the pickaxe instructed. It waited until Seamus had it firmly in grip before speaking again. "Do yourself a favor. Aim for the heart."