The Memory Garden

Chapter 4 by Robert J. Parizek  The water was as surreal as real and felt like the finest silk upon your body. Its colors were a wash between deep greens to unbelievable blues, even when close to shore, all was crystal clear. The reeds on the shore stuck out long, hard and seemingly looking to reach the heavens by noon. Stones and shells imbedded into the shore each had their own unique look and story, if one were to grasp one of them, they would be told a ballad of that stones or shells existence within the placement of the mathematical madness known as this world. This reality.The grass had its own mind, its own control of the environment around it, and swayed to the gentle winds that would caress the entire visuals. Agreements between the grass, the woodlands and the trees caused for a wonderful mixture of greens to earthy browns to the grace of the grays that only the ancient and wisest of trees could combine to be craft into being. Animals and insects found the grass and its reign over the visual as the calling card to come out and play in the daylight cast upon them.Then, a fracture in reality happened and from this fracture, something emerged. It looked as though someone was standing above the waters. Its very presence gave ripples into the empowering reserve of the waters grace. Forming within the moment of thought, clothing began to blow into smaller whisks of fabric, shoe leather and metal to weave itself into being. As if an invisible being was standing within this clothing, shoes and a very bright and glowing pendant, was what the visual presented. Then the fracture became a tear, a black star-speckled tear with ragged edges and floating visage. As if an embossing happened upon the tear, features slowly rose and in its composition, it formed a face upon the tear. One side embossed and the other embedded, it turned, as if looking right at you. Its hands waved in the air, one high and one low, pointing. Does it see you? Could it? You feel ill. Cold chill races up your spine, that is what are the questions and feelings that this can cause and often does for this was the... Begetting.And this was its game. It was no afoot, as they say, a shot blown high into the sky, which began this race. Now the pieces are in play and one must wonder why the forces would call upon the... Begetting.With a final moment, everything froze still, as if it were a snapshot. As if you were seeing it differently, pulling back and watching it upon something, something like a piece of canvas. The paintbrush touched up the deep blue suit and its reflection in the unreal waters, somewhat rippled, and then the artist put down his brush. He stepped back and took a look at his work. He liked what he had done and with that, he quickly wrote down its name upon a scrap of canvas which would later be properly adhered to the back of the painting, along with his signature and piece of hair in the oils. This was his; he named it theMemory
Garden.And the key was cast into the fires.

Chapter 3B by William S Four cups of luke-warm coffee and a stale bagel brought Lemon to a feeling of almost human. Well as human as he could be what with all the imbedded sorcery and rogue DNA running though his system. It was cold in the burnt out warehouse he was using as a communications point. Even the rats were wearing sweaters and toques. His breath came in quick wisps of frost. Shivers ran the length of his spin, more from anticipation then the cold."I should dress." Years spent alone in his prison cell had given him the habit of talking allowed to ease the pain of loneliness. "It's been awhile I don't know the local styles, the modern styles, I'm going to look silly… fuck'm if I do. I'll make it a new style." With a quick smile he tapped his twin pinky rings together and reached into a shadow to withdraw a beaver fur felt top hat. He thought a second about whether to wear it or not then changed his mind. A quick shake of his hand and the felt rearranged itself to the form and colour of a short brimmed brown fedora. "This will do, a tad cliqued even back then, but handsome nonetheless" Reaching shoulder deep into the depths of the hat he pulled forth a beige suit and red necktie to go with the hat. No mirror was around to help him see if everything was in place. Never trust the mirrors. The eyes looking back are never yours. Running a silver comb though his iron gray hair he hoped it was settling into a respectable coif. From the pants pocket he withdrew a military style watch done in etched chrome. There were no hands on its analog face, a quick glance was enough to prompt his mind into giving him the time. White had said the war was going badly, he didn't have moments to spare.Once dressed and feeling better for it, well at least warmer, Matthew Lemon set about his work."This time out I shall do things right. Back up is what's in order." He moved to find his phone. His right foot impacted something on the floor sending it rolling about in circles. It was a bottle of black Indian ink for calligraphers. "Whoops, mustn't forget that. With a flourish he scooped it up and dropped it into the safe place within his fedora.The receiver of an old black Bakelite rotary dial phone with frayed cord dangling unattached to anything and useless in most peoples eyes sat pride of place on the heap of blankets that served as his bed these last few days as he prepared the workings and rights of the communications circle to speak with his boss, his master. His shoes squeaked as he went to retrieve it. Cradled in his hands it felt warm and loving, like a good well-maintained weapon should."I would like to speak with Walsingham." The cord of the receiver sparked an ozone fart and twitched like a cat's tail in heat."Good morning" The voice on the line was dead and decayed, a fossil long buried but still kicking."No it's not.""If you insist Mr. Lemon. How may we be of service to you?""I need some information.""Doesn't everyone? That's why were here.""I need to know where to find Zero.""The place, number, time, concept or person?""The person.""Male, female, or somewhere in between?""Male… I think?""You think?""I've never met Zero personally, just hired him to do some killing.""Ah that one. Wait." The line that was never live went dead. The cord stopped it's twitching."We will contact you when we know where you can find Zero.""This phone isn't going to be soon…""That's okay. We will find you that's what we do.""Fine." He threw the receiver for all he was worth to smash, crack and shatter against the cement floor."I should clean this place up before I go." Jerry cans of gasoline and turpentine for flavoring stood about the warehouse, he began tipping them over with a sad tap dance of destruction. His shoes still squeaked. Taking care to thoroughly drench down the communications circle, it's ancillary workings, his bedding, and a few security glyphs He lit a match with his teeth, tossed the flaming stick and pirouetted out the loading bay doors. A loud cough of flame and smoke applauded him into the creeping dawn of his brand new life.  Libraries are funny places if you really look at them, but most people don't and a joke never works if you have to explain it to them. Matthew practically skipped up the gray stone steps leading to the glass front doors. A beggar in grimy overcoat and crushed beliefs shambled his way trough them."I only wanted to take a piss in dignity…" his breath smelt of Lysol and refuse. Matthew palmed a twenty into one of the man's pocket with a smile. The two never spoke, that wasn't needed. Bad Karma must be bought off without fanfare. The library smelt of mildewing knowledge and thoughts past their prime. Lemon hummed nothings softly to himself as he wandered about the shelves and stacks tapping the spines of forgettable books as he searched past them. People in the form of massed individuality paid him no attention, he was just one more bibliophile lost in his own selfish lust. Lemon came upon what seemed a little used corner of the reference section. He inhaled deeply. Of all the things he missed in his incarceration it was the printed word's absence that hurt the most. Like razor blades to the flesh between his toes. With hands now trembling in greed to take down each and every book to devour in glee he quickened his search. Finally in it's proper place as dictated by numerology and the dewy decimal system he found the slim red volume he'd been looking for. He withdrew it tenderly, lovingly. He sniffed the creaked, dry leather of its cover, he caressed as lover, opened it to the correct page. Counted to ten twice with a pregnant breath between, sang quietly so as not to disturb the other patrons the secret lyrics of a string quartet that had no words and licked the page. He was wrenched sideways to

Chapter 3A by William S  Robert's Last Stand is a speck of arrow shaped garnet awash with the turbulent waters of theBubbling
Sea. It served no purpose in the great mechanism of the world. It was a hazard, an obstacle to navigation, an after thought of the artist who had molded the world. Few of the Pinnacle paid it any attention. Why should they? It existed in the background of their existence, a chunk of nothing protruding into the waters of the harbour but not into their lives. This is a pity for housed within the rock of no consequence was a room of splendour and seven beings. A room no one had seen in over a century.It was cold in there. A creeping sort of cold that climbs into you bones and pushes your soul ever so slightly off center. Dust bunnies played care free in the corners. Cobwebs and flecks of years old ash fluttered about in the chromatic daylight filtered through the rose vault, stained glass skylight dome above. Scenes of birth and death cut of glass coloring the room below.On the floor of matching crimson and white marble tiles, one foot by one foot each, he sat. Four feet by four feet by six feet clad in gun metal gray ceramic with a seven spay painted in the upper right corner of his face the one who thinks nothing but coulisses and reports sat unmoving as always at the center of his companions, three in a row to the left, three in a row to the right. Since he had no thoughts of his own to share, he was watching old war movies and counting the number of time the soldiers fired their guns beyond the number of rounds that the particular weapons could fire before reloading. He seemed happy in an anal sort of way. Black shapes reminiscent of digital parodies of animal shadows scurried about flat to the floor connecting him to his friends, their chosen form of information sharing.First went a cheetah to the head of the row on the left. Here was the six-foot diameter sphere with its polished chrome surface reflecting the world around it. He who thinks only in circles looked like it was on the verge of rolling to somewhere else. Not that it ever has or ever will. A vicious argument was being had within him self about logic constructs and why emotions don't make them work, or was it emotional constructs and the logic they create? The cheetah received its news and moved on quickly down the line.The various hues of blue painted, four foot based concrete pyramid spiking at six feet who thought from the ground up but never sees the top was quietly drawing in its mind a cathedral dedicated to a love never confessed. Such an epic poem it would write once the designs were done and the proper paper selected to write upon. Naturally a pen and color of ink would also have to be selected and of course what style of poem, and, and… the list goes on. Foundations to be laid, thoughts to be constructed. The cheetah moved on.Last in the row a fleshy pink torus, so reminiscent of a donut burped. He who thinks other's thoughts are his own was reliving somebody else's meal as being the tastiest one it had had so far today. The cheetah paused here for such a profundity of information was to be uploaded that a rest was needed. A shaggy electric bear ambelled in profile across the floor to the second row of companions. Picking up where the cheetah left off.The bear bypassed the six-foot firry red plastic corkscrew spire of He who thank to quickly, who currently shut down and snoring like a bumble bee on speed. He slept much these years having long though its needed thoughts and stored them away for future perusal, editing, updating and gloating over.The evergreen snowflake who ponders thoughts distant and near but never in between was doing just that and had nothing to share with the bear and the others.Last the ebony two-foot radius; six-foot tall latex cylinder who thought thoughts only about itself and occasionally shared them was unspeakably bored for none of the others were talking about it. It gave the bear just enough time to up load it's displeasure with this turn of events and send it on its way back to he who thinks nothing but coulisses and reports when the bear failed to slather enough attention on it. A pack of field mice sent by the snowflake to shut the cylinder up was running circle aground it taunting and calling names of vulgar complexity, all of which went over the cylinders preverbal head or bounced of its hair gel shellacked sides.Just out of a grown man's arms reach before he who thinks nothing but coulisses and reports on a woven rag carpet of no permanent color or shape stood a chair, of well-padded red wine coloured crushed velvet upholstering on a cherry wood body carved in an angry, intense swirling and slashing pattern. Waves of emotion chaotic in their number and intensity radiated from it. Currently no one sat in the chair but he who thinks nothing, just coulisses and reports knew this would change. Or maybe one of the others knew this and reminded him. The bear having returned and down loaded a bunch of thoughts.Beyond his six friends were the eight walls of their world. Each proportionally measured by the golden means against his own dimensions. Each, save one a blank expanse of blond pinewood, none with a blemish on them, no knots, scars or bumps. Before them on white marble Doric crowned and footed pedestals sat seven phones. Each was identical to the others, long wood poles, painted with black acrylic and brass rotary dials over mother of pearl faces.
Bell shaped receivers attached with co-axial cabling threatening to turn to dust, hung off the side of them from brass fork handles.No phone or pedestal stood before the eighth wall. Here resided in moldings of wood to match the walls was a set of double doors, each 4 feet wide, seven feet tall. No hinges or knobs were visible. How the doors were to be opened was a mystery to the seven as none had ever seen it done.Such was the world of the seven. Since before time and the angel construction workers laid down the first of the great artists blue prints they had been here. Time was not a form of measurement that had any hold on them. The phone known as Benjamin rang, then the chair creaked as one of the creatures they must obey once more folded his turquoise, silk robed form into its warm embrace and relaxed. The carpet shifted color to match irises hidden behind black threat sewn shut eye lids. Perfect white teeth flashed to shine past lips painted ruby red. "I have a task for you.""You? You have a task for us?" He who thinks nothing but coulisses and reports spoke with intended disbelief loaned from the cylinder who thought thoughts only about itself. Its voice the grating screech of metal on metal. A frown creased the face of the creature in the chair."We, the Consortium of Truth have a task for you.""That is better we will listen now." Flat animals flashed about linking and awakening them all. A warmth of desire passed through them. Each in turned pulled on the power of the Pinnacle and strained to hear what task it was they were to perform.He who thinks too quickly thought its new thoughts, checked and compared them to old thoughts and having completed them thought the task that had yet to be told to them was finished and so shut down. The one who thinks from the ground up began to formulate plans for an approach to the task without even knowing what the task was. He who thinks others thoughts as his own quoted twenty different sources on how to complete a task and then waited for the others to congratulate him on his cleverness for telling them something most already knew. They let him preen in silence. The one who ponders thoughts distant and near but never in between launched into a dissertation on what it means to complete the task, even though they still had not been told what it was nor had they done it. The one who thinks his thoughts only about himself ask himself what would he do to complete the task and then answered but did not share the answer with the others. The field mice still taunted.The one who thinks in circles chose to start an argument with the one who thinks others thoughts are his own about the plans the one who thinks from the ground up was laying out that the one who thinks others thoughts are his own had just claimed as his own.The one who thinks nothing but collates and reports spoke for the others. "What task is it we can do for the Consortium?"The creature in the chair smiled for he knew he would be rewarded for completing his own task of asking the august body before him to work for the Consortium. He hoped his rewarded death would be slow."There are two men, possibly more in the future that I wish you to keep an eye on.""Physically?""No, figuratively. I think they might suspect that you are up to something if you place an actual eye on them."The creature chuckled at his own joke at the expense of the literal nature of he who thinks nothing just collates and report's naïveté. "We can do this. For how long?""Until told to stop.""We will do this.""You will also report, when prompted to, all that you have seen of them.""We will do this.""Of course you will, you always do." A smile played across ruby lips."Who are these men?""One is a former prisoner just released, the other is a half breed longing to escape. You know them?""We do, we know all.""Of course you do. That's why we keep you." Another phone rang and the creature was gone.It was still cold in the room. A creeping sort of cold that climbs into you bones and pushes your soul ever so slightly off center, but slowly the cold was lifting. God's were at work and when that happens things have a tendency to heat up.

Chapter 2 by Robert J. Parizek Kaplin walked down the filthy and dirty road that lead to the door. Munching on his French croissant, he did not notice the older man he had almost run into. "Pardon moi.", Kaplin said with his mouth still full but covering with his marked left hand as the older man turned and looked at Kaplin from his robes."Ah... it is wonderful to see you again, young Kaplin.", the robed fellow mentioned as his mate stepped up beside him, in an almost defensive stance while playing with a handful of cards.Kaplin almost ended up choking on his bread feast when he managed to reply, "Mr. Mohr, what a pleasure it is to see you again. How have you been?""Well. I am tired these nights. Are you still apart of the Ministry?""Sadly, yes..", Kaplin trailed off, not wanting to mention his new position which in truth is a step down to anyone in the Ministry."Then I shall not keep you, officer.", Mister Mohr mentioned as he nodded his white robed head."Ah. I can stand to be late now and again...""Witty as always, dear Kaplin. The Ministry not paying you enough in this life?"
Kaplin chuckled, he always knew Mister Mohr wanted to be apart of the Ministry but he had one great slight against him although word was he was trying to redeem himself, "The Ministry pays fine but one cannot live indoors forever. Fresh breath is required every now and again. I am sure you can understand."Along side the tall Mister Mohr, robed in his white Islamic wear, Kaplin was your average size. Similar in size to the associate alongside Mister Mohr who was dressed in the finest suits and properly trimmed beard while a set of gold-rimmed sheik glasses crafted an image of business and trend. Kaplin was so unlike either of these fashion statements with his torn jeans, slip on sandals and green hoodie. He looked more like a person working on a movie set than an officer of the Ministry. His slight five a'clock shadow covered his dark skin and deep set crystal blue eyes. Unlike many of this kind, he was able to have a common look outside the Pinnacle.Mister Mohr nodded and so did his associate who now took a stance beside Mister Mohr and was more attentive to the young women walking by than Kaplin's words."Again Kaplin, it was a pleasure to see you. I hope one day we can sit and have some tea, talk of the old times, the future and beyond.", Mohr calmly said in a soft voice as he gracefully turned his head to the direction that he and his associate were previously headed. Kaplin smiled and continued on, it wasn't until he was sure he was out of earshot that he muttered, "Bloody vampires... thinking they know everything... talk about old times... yeah right."Kaplin came across a small cafe, like many here in
Paris; it was upon the cobblestones of the city streets and barely had anything inside other than a small kitchen and bar. He swung past the entrance and between the maze of outdoor table and chairs, shiny metal creations, while making his way to what seemed like the side of the cafe. A gentleman in a half tuxedo approached and was about to ask Kaplin something when he was called to the nearest table; the patrons required some more water with their savory crepes. As Kaplin nearly reached the edge of the cafe, he quickly moved his hands to snag a cup of freshly brewed java in those small European cups. Sipping it quickly he made a right, then a left, then turned, stepped over the small chain which ends the cafe's outdoor venue and went into a very tight alley that was hidden from plain sight off the street behind all the small tree's the cafe had to enclose its seating.While shuffling down the alley; Kaplin took his time as he approached the door, sipping the hot mix of boiled bean juice and fresh watery fat from a local goat, and began staring at the door for quite a while. Then door was barely visible in this tight alleyway. Bronze bars and markings with golden bolts held the ancient wood together. There was neither handle nor knocker. It seemed huge although in truth it really wasn't but when standing before it, you felt very small as you could just feel its age. Finishing his coffee and setting it upon the edge of the brick opposite to the door, Kaplin jumped when the door suddenly it spoke, as it should."Sing me a song as sweet as wine mulling spices!", the Door demanded in a very gentle yet deep voice that rang through your ears, like an echo in a forest.
Like all of the Brethren Doors, a song must be sung or at least hummed to allow entrance into Pinnacle, and if one would not do such a thing, rumor has the door opening to parts unknown and allowing ones to pass into places better suited to the wild imaginations of young children high on the latest medication to calm their nerves. Kaplin cleared his voice and began to hum a tune. The door seemed as though it was breathing to the humming, Kaplin continued and added a few words, "sixty nine it was fine you said by seventy nine it was gonna be mine...", as he began to sing Stiff Little Fingers song '78 RPM'. Knowing the bronze markings upon the door helps you know what type of songs to sing. This door had a marking of the English Lion upside down and broken to impose the thought that it likes to hear very rebellious punkish songs. The Door would sway with the song until Kaplin finished singing it, then it rippled into a solid stance and for a moment, Kaplin though to himself, "Fuck. I should have sung some Sex Pistols" but Door then began to open and it barked, "Thank you, Officer Kaplin. Please do not pursue a career in singing." and then began to laugh as if every other Door just heard what Kaplin sang and all they were all laughing at him. Echoing while the ancient wood swung open. Kaplin slowly slipped his shades on as the gleam from the Pinnacle's long standing building, The Ministry Central with its white topped tipped nipple radiated like a nuclear blast, it was too fucking much after a night of partying at the house of Mos Eisley's resident freaks and associated (soon to be a incorporated reality near your town soon)."Ah. Another fucking day in hell. Hot and boring.", Kaplin moaned as he stuffed the remains of his croissant into his hoodies pocket. Making his way down

Yuri kept staring at him and then took a few deep breaths, calming himself and once he felt comfortable he walked behind Kaplin and started to ask Kaplin if various items were accounted for within the journal and all ended with the answer, "Yeah" in a tone that echoed, "Please fucking shoot me!". Hours passed and it was soon after the nick of noon, time for lunch, but before either of them could close up a ringing came from a small metal shoot on the far right wall from either of them. This disturbed their checkers game they were playing."Mail!", Kaplin said with some excitement as mail is at least fucking something to do, like read something and maybe his transfer went through and he could be a field agent again, although he knew it was unlikely. Suddenly the metal shoot quickly opened and a small chimpanzee stepped out smoking a big cigar with a mail pouch slung over its shoulder. Its hair was all punked out in green and yellow and was wearing a
St. Louis hockey jersey that dragged on the ground. With one hand digging into the pouch, the monkey glared at both of them, and with a quick wrist shot, it threw a metal tube container at them - hard! Kaplin and Yuri covered themselves as it struck their checkerboard and everything shattered and fell on the floor but the metal container just spun around on the table. Looking back, one could see the monkey leaving while giving both of them the finger. SWOOSH and both the metal shoot door closed and it was gone. "Dae no nice 'nymore!", Yuri exclaimed as he picked up the pieces off the floor, showing his bullish but crack from his coveralls. Kaplin really didn't need to see that nor wish he didn't, turning his attention to the mail he answered, "Ever since they became a fucking union they lost all their pride of the job... well, that and the whole clipping of their wings episode I guess pissed them off. From a flying assault squad to postal workers can't be easy to swallow."Opening the metal tube, Kaplin jerked it a number of times over the skewed checkerboard table until its contents finally fell out. Lots of bills, to which both laughed at like as if they were going to pay for any of those - sometimes the Energy Farm is just plain silly, and then two items which struck both of them like a arrow into their chests. Yuri stepped back a bit as Kaplin cocked his head to read what was written on the pieces of mail. One was a Pull-Tab Postcard from AOracleINC and it was addressed to him and the other was a sleek silver envelope addressed to the Ministry of Belongings Att: Yuri Kei, Mgr. A silver note was an internal mail from the Ministry itself and often was a notice to the department itself from the Estate. Yuri was not keen on opening it while Kaplin slowly took hold of the Pull-Tab postcard then the silver note."Do you want me to open it?", Kaplin asked. Yuri nodded.
Kaplin decided to open the silver note first, just in case he lost his job the Pull-Tab postcard at least couldn't give him that as a reading since it then had already happened. Kaplin opened the silver note and suddenly it melted in his hands and dropped upon the table as a silvery slime. The silvery slime pushed aside the checkerboard, which fell to the ground, and then began to speak to the department itself in various words that it formed upon the table. After the message was sent, the silvery slime seemed to curl up into itself until there was no longer any on the table. The message was: Ready. The. Dawns. Package.Yuri and Kaplin took a deep sigh of relief, it wasn't a bad message, just a heads up that someone is coming for the Dawns Package. Calming himself, Yuri put away the checker pieces into the box under the table and then reached down for the board, putting it away as well. Kaplin then sat back down and took a moment. It had been a while since the Ministry itself sent a message as such and why would the Ministry have to tell them to get something ready? Especially the Dawns Package?Without a second though, Kaplin turned his attention to the postcard in his hands. He had never gotten one of these before although he was a member of the AOracleINC and was a fan at reading their newsletters while on the john, it was that important of news to him. Before he began, Yuri looked over."You opening?""Um... yeah, is there a reason I shouldn't?""Cousin mine open. Next moment piece of a plane fell. He die slowly and card say so.""Fuck me!", Kaplin said as he hopped off the seat, "Shit. Should I open it then?"
Yuri took a moment to think and then said, "Yes. Need new worker.", with a smile."Fuck you too! Shit. Your bull shiting me, your cousin never died from a... did he?""She did. Very messy. Fur everywhere!"Kaplin was now fucking scared and put down the postcard."Well... is lunch. I go. Get package for you.""yeah.. okay, Yuri. Wait. For me?""I go lunch. No here.""Oh. Right."With that Yuri went into the hanger and hunted out the Dawns package while Kaplin contemplated what the fuck he was going to do. Should he open it or just fuck it, maybe he didn't need to know what his future was. The postcard just lay on the table while Kaplin kept looking at it and wondering what to do. He had heard of these postcards, often they are either Good or Bad news but he never knew that they could be so bad that you could die from them. I mean, if its fate, then what the fuck, right? Neither of these thoughts comforted Kaplin. He kept staring at the postcard until Yuri returned with a small black OPs-like army duffle bag. Various zippers and pockets about and could hold a small child within if required."I go. Lunch. Kaplin-san. Be well...",Yuri mentioned with his head hanging low while putting his bullish hoof-hands on Kaplin's shoulder. Grabbing his lunch box, which looked more like a large keg of beer, he went around the table. At the door he took his last look at Kaplin, dropped his head again and sighed, as the door faded into solid form. Kaplin just stared at the door, he mouth a jaw, as Yuri is just going to let him die..."Fucking shit.", Kaplin commented and before he could even think, a loud thunderous laughter came from the other side of the door. It was Yuri and he was laughing his head off, the door then suddenly became transparent again and Yuri was standing there, Keg over his shoulder and crying because he was laughing so hard."Got you!"Kaplin jumped back and screamed, "You COCK!" and threw the office stapler at the door but it had solidified before the stapler could reach its target and it ricocheted off the door and broke apart on the floor. Kaplin was pissed. He was the comedian and not Yuri. Fuck, it was Castday and here Yuri was playing with his head. With a quick swipe, he opened the postcard via the Pull-Tab and read his fate:
Your wish is granted as you shall journey, Now. Say "Hello."While reading his postcard, he did not hear the door become transparent and someone walk in, he looked up and saw someone standing in the doorway. Dressed in wears that would fit a 1940's adventure movie set was a man."Hello. My name is Mathew Lemon."Kaplin just said what he was told to say, "Hello."

Chapter 1 by William S The room was wrong in so many ways his eyes couldn't focus. It was damn near impossible to place what exactly it was about the place that was eschew. There seemed to be a corner missing or maybe there was one too many. It was taxing for him to tell, and concentrating on it was giving him a migraine. The only sane object in the room was the comfy chair placed square in the middle of a raised platform. It looked so inviting, and he was so very, very tired, but there was no way in hell he was going to sit down in it with out permission. Heavy curtains of pastel colour filled water obscured one wall. Soft moans came from the other side. Blobs of shimmering thought drifted through the floor to pop against the ceiling in a flowing shower of chaotic consciousness. A heavy looking pear shaped door throbbed to the beat of an unknown heart and melted open at the far end of the topsy-turvy room. With the quick, sharp strides of a man possessed by the fire of inner demons Mr. White, followed closely by his assistant the redoubtable Marge strode confidently into the room. "Good day Lemon it was nice of you to come see me on such short notice." White sat down with a Budda-like smile. His voice was a heavy caress from a scorned lover returned to your side "I'd offer you a chair but there are none for you. So sorry." The smile never wavered. Marge lit herself a blue tipped cigarette with a pink disposable lighter. She rolled her eyes heavenward in pleasure of breathing cancer, of inhaling death. Somewhere beyond the confines of the room a man screamed in agony or ecstasy it was had to tell, for the walls had covered themselves in green deep pile shag carpet. "I'll be brief in my instructions to you because my decor seems to be causing you some distress.""Thank you sire, that is most kind."
"Yes well we are suppose to all be on the same side."
"Ah…Yes, that is true."
"Please never utter that vile word in my presence again."
"Which word is that sire?"
"True. Such a despicable word, I shall not abide its existence in my presence. Thank-you very much.""Yes sire. Please forgive my foolishness for having said such a vile thing.""Oh for the love of the existential man. You need not call me sire. Sir will do. We are going to be working closer together, you and I. Besides it does not become an agent of Her Titanic Mysteries Special Service to be so demurred. Correct?""Correct.""Good then. Now straighten you back and wipe your nose you seemed to have developed a bloody drip.""Of course Sir.""Ah that is better. Well to business I should think. Before you are sick on my lovely hard wood floor. You've turned a lovely shade of green by the way.""Yes, to business.""You have been tasked with finding the Architect's lostMemory
Garden."

"Sire? I'm mean Sir? You must be joking. The Garden has been lost for ages. Where would I begin?""That doesn't matter to me. I only wish it found. I hope you will not disappoint me. You do know what happens to those who disappoint me?""No, of course not. I mean yes of course. No wait what I mean to say is yes I know what happens and no I will not disappoint, but I just wonder why the Garden is being looked for now. Its presence has not been needed for awhile.""Well that is correct, and you should know why its being looked for, but I have no inkling why. A situation I find most distressing. I have worked my magic, walked my ways and scryed as far a field as I may over the last sixteen years and you'd think she'd trust me with a secret or two by now. But no. I suspect that the war is not going well for us, and the Mystery is worried""What? That can't be. The newsreels are full of glorious stories telling of victory over victory. They must be true…""There's that word again.""Sorry. I meant to say correct. The Ministry of Information would not lie to the people.""Well of course it would. It wouldn't be the Ministry of Information if it didn't. I mean really. Have you been living in a box somewhere?""No, just a prison cell.""Ah yes. I forgot.""How long will I have to find the Garden?""Not long.""How… long is that… more exactly?""Perhaps a year?""Ah well then it's not as important as I thought.""Then you thought wrong.""Ah… I see.'"No you don't. Continue.""Will I be granted resources to search for it.""Besides you own capable wits there is a care package waiting for you with Dispatch over at the Ministry of Belongings."“Splendid. Will I be granted any personal?""Why yes, you can select from a list of them supplied by the Ministry of People tomorrow. Your appointment is for 3:04 am. Anything else.""Is there a file on theMemory
Garden?""Marge." With a flick of her wrist a bottle of black Indian ink sailed through the air to bounce of Lemon's left thigh. "Anything else?""No I think that will be all.""Ah well good. See you on the flip side." With that White's world folded in two, horizontally and winked out. Leaving Matthew Lemon standing naked and alone within a bloody circle of communication. The power of his magic fading in a sunset sort of way. Reality claimed him whole.