BY FISHER THOMPSON
| About the Author: Fisher Thompson has traveled coast to coast in the USA in search of a literary home; finally settling in Southern California. His essays have been published in Abstracts Magazine (USA), Barfing Frog Press (USA), and Wild and Whirling Words e-zine (USA): his fiction in Wandering Dog e-zine (UK), www.laurahird.com (UK), Keystone Magazine (UK), Muse Apprentice Guild e-zine (USA), Towerofbabel.com (USA), Southern Ocean Review Magazine (NZ), Skyline Magazine (USA), Zygote in my Coffee webzine (UK), SubtleTea.com (USA), Somewhat e-zine (USA), Thieves Jargon e-zine (USA), Rumble e-zine (USA), The Seeker e-zine (UK), Mad Hatters Review e-zine (USA), Barfing Frog Press (USA), Misanthropists Anonymous MA:zine (UK), Nagoya Writes Magazine (JAPAN), and The Ladder Review (UK): his poetry in The Indite Circle Literary e-zine (CANADA), and Raunchland Publications e-zine(UK). He is currently working toward having his novels published. |
At one time there was only Dogda. He was omnipotent and existed alone, chewing space
dust, blasting asteroids from their orbit, annihilating strange arthropodic civilizations which
had ceased to cause him pleasure. Life…was good. One day, while strolling among the
lowest life-forms of Nebula-7, he noticed two of them, one atop the other, engaged in a
peculiar activity. To his cultured, highly sophisticated intelligence, they appeared to be
entangled in a violent act of aggression. His first impulse was to intervene. But as he
lingered, he observed the oddest thing; they were emitting distinct sounds of ABSOLUTE
ENJOYMENT!! "What is this odd enterprise?" he asked himself. "And how is it that I,
Dogda, have no prior knowledge of such happenings?" The questions were many, the
answers few, and for three millennia Dogda lay in thought, his frustration echoing
throughout the intertwined universes as he struggled to comprehend the wonder he had
beheld. Finally, the answer struck him like a gamma blast: I need a mate!
For a moment—50,000 years chronological—he rejoiced in his newfound knowledge. Until
the brittle reality that was his Gibraltar crumpled from the weight of confusion, rocking his
biosphere, toppling him from his most high throne. "What is a mate?" he puzzled. "And
how do I, Dogda, the only super-being in the universe acquire one?" He consulted the
ancient scripts of the cosmos, the oracle of the constellations, the intergalactic heralds of
super-being psychology, burrowing deep within his shell, desperate for enlightenment, till
eventually, a softness like the tidal rushes of Uranus overtook him as he came to see himself
for the anal, compulsive, nihilistic super-being butthead that he was. And in that instant, he
was re-birthed.Remembering his power to give life, he leafed through his Create-A-Mate
textbooks, and discovered the precise method he would employ. But these creatures in the
schematic diagrams looked too…too… He didn't know. Something was missing, as if they
lacked a critical third dimension. But what? Just then, while he stared at the plank-like form
on the supreme page, two globular meteor fragments fell from above, landing symmetrically
spaced on the chest of the plank-like creature in his book. His eyes went wide in
amazement, his lips fluttered, his super-brain mangled, his tongue stammered,
"Ba…Ba…Ba…BABY!!!" And in that moment he KNEW he had found it!! He split himself
in two, keeping the elements of Order and Logic for his own being and giving to his mate
the elements of Chaos, Emotion, curves, curves, and c-c-c-curves, for her being. Her
name was Baba-a female. Dogda ogled her as his head spun vertiginous, and in his loins he
felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation. Baba, meanwhile, wiggled and wriggled, bouncing like
Jello, becoming so overwhelmed with love at her creation that she ran across the stars to
kiss Dogda, giving him a reaction which was to become known as "The Chosen
Response." The Chosen Response was the first acknowledgement and reaction of love
between a male and female in the universe, and this became the greatest secret and mystery
of mankind, later referred to as "The Holy Rail."
In a moment—which in Dogda time is something like 5 millenniums—a new order had
begun: Baba-12. She was predominantly female with a few spare parts thrown in for good
measure. One can only guess at the effect. Mostly she just pranced about the geladas
touching the trees touching the clouds touching herself, displaying all of her enormous
charms before the slathering eyes of Dogda. Those days would henceforth be known as the
Days of Piece. But these were terrifyingly soon-about one Dogda millennium-followed by
what would henceforth to be known as the Days of Shrinkage. Sometimes she discoursed
at great length on the gender war. "You know oh great whatever you THINK you are, just
because I have among other things these great blobs of-what do you call them, boobs?- you
seem so enamored of does not somehow make me less important on the universal scale
than you, my darling snake winder." Dogda was bewildered. On and on she went, raising
the ante with each excursion until her Vulgar Latin had found its way into the world's first
lexicon. She was the most successful of all the prototypes, but whether alarm, warning,
omen, or not, she refused to deliver. "Sex is linked to disease in third world babies," she
said, sawing him in two with her eyes. Dogda tried to understand, even ordering a love toy
or two. But the mailman refused to deliver. Something about "apartheid." Try as he might,
Dogda crumpled in defeat as he realized his Shangri-La was now but a distant tremor on the
pale horizon of memory. Perhaps a pet aardvark would have been a better choice? "Oh
come now," he thought. "I can't fuck an aardvark!!…Can I??!!" He decided a good read
might be the elixir he needed: She lay pinned against the boulder by large serpents, her
shorts split open, the creatures weaving through the leg holes, some stopping there, others
continuing upwards, beneath her skin tight top, her nipples pushing at the fabric, the snakes
exiting at the neck opening, hissing and flapping their tongues at her face to terrifying
screams…Dogda closed his memoirs. "Oh Baba-12," he lamented. "What went wrong
between us? Must we assail ourselves with the brutalities of contemporary women's
issues?" Let us concede that history, if not common sense, was on his side of the argument.
