Jason Marc Harris | 43
Mrs. Bell retreated to the tub for hours, soaking her calves and feet, swollen by edema.
Finding Mrs. Bell’s bag of Epson salts, Samuel spiced his bananas with “magnesium sulfide, Mommy, it is really delightful.” He also sucked on pennies instead of candies.
After his skin turned a yet deeper shade of copper—and his hair fibers torqued like straw-thin limestone helictites twisting from the Alkali Cavern walls—he seemed no longer dependent on the Handle. The Handle spun its cottony froth faster as though some hidden sprite had worked a spinning wheel in our midst. Ivory and copper fibers networked our town, from street lights to fence posts, tickling newborn’s ears and nesting in Minister Davis’s eyebrows, now revealed as the sort of hairy caterpillars that also spun silk.
Samuel’s energy level proved boundless as any two-year-old, and his very presence conducted power and communication. Kitchen appliances sprung to life when he drew near, and wielders of wireless devices discovered their cellphones and tablets had consistent power and an unnamed network at their disposal.
As Samuel grew stronger, he became more generous. We got to play with the Handle for as long as we wanted. We basked in its infinitely compelling currents.
Eventually all understood. The amber glow emitted by the Handle and its ivory flakes suffusing Samuel’s dimpled cheeks, warmed our hearts into benign complaisance of the new normal.
Minister Davis joined Sammy in eating whole bananas. He whispered to himself about ancient silver angels whisking from clouds of cosmic dust, hurtling with comets towards our world.
“We must be prepared,” he said. “We must join together and make a spiritual fortress to be ready to receive the fullness of universal wisdom. I wish I had the calculus to appreciate it all.”