Don't Know Where, Don't Know When

Original absurd, satirical and funny fiction. Influences include Pynchon, DeLillo, Vonnegut, Adams, and Norm Macdonald (all lovers of SEO).

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Every thousand years or so the astronaut’s eyes opened. The cabin was always dark. Except for dull pain from the feeding tubes hooked to her arms and gut, she sat lifeless, just a wasted shell piercing deep space on the timescale of fate. Her lot, it seemed: to forge ahead, endlessly. But then, long after purpose and hope were lost, she arrived; the astronaut reached the edge of the universe.

Long-range sensors detected a hard barrier and signalled the ship to decelerate. As the ancient, five-thousand tonne vessel slowed, the astronaut was forced into her restraints. She had been sedentary for longer than humans walked the earth, longer than their apelike ancestors roamed the plains, longer than it took the plains and continents and oceans to form. So though the approach was safe, gentle, the novelty of movement caused her remaining muscles to tear, her ligaments to snap and moan. She tried to scream but had long forgotten how. 

From the dashboard below the viewing port, a cord of light resembling a bioluminescent eel slithered out. The astronaut shut her eyes to avoid the cord’s blinding glow, so the eel swam patient figure-eights. It waited for her eyes to quiver and then sprung into a flat panel of light depicting a woman, a barricaded room.       

“If you’re seeing this,” said the hologram, “then we made it. Good on us. Unfortunately by now you’ve probably forgotten everything. We - meaning the Edge Theorists - are not sure what will come back, if anything. Your name - our name - is Dr Leslie George...” She stopped, patted her sleeve on her cheek - a hologram laughing through tears. “So the edge is real after all. One giant leap. Make sure to take a photo for me, old girl.” 

It took months of psychological and movement rehabilitation before the astronaut could move about the ship. During this period the holographic square provided constant instruction and ancestral knowledge. This wisdom came in the form of timestamped recordings, which continued even when the astronaut was outside, tethered to the rear airlock by nanowire cabling, pulling herself along the guardrail in zero gravity, the edge like a mirror reflecting billions of distant galaxies.

She hesitated before touching. And then it happened: a human hand at the race’s end, the physical finish line. The astronaut marvelled at her own white glove and then tried to stroke the edge like an animal, but it squeaked. The vibration played through her helmet and dug up a memory: paper hats, fallen cake, balloons. The universe had squealed like a balloon, she realised. Her visor fogged as she began to laugh and cheer.

The next step was to secure a sample. The astronaut held the testing cube against the edge until the suction pads took over. Then she used the touchpad to initiate the sample protocol.

A needle the width of an index finger shot from the cube and penetrated the edge. If something was to go wrong it would be then, as the sample was being obtained. That’s why the hologram, if it could react, would be so disappointed. Because instead of focusing on the device, the astronaut’s gaze was elsewhere. She was instead facing a panel of warm, yellow light that had appeared less than two ship lengths away. The panel was a doorway, and in the opening stood the crisp silhouette of a man, a man without a spacesuit.     

The astronaut’s heads-up display warned of a dangerous heart rate. She whispered: shut off all light and audio. Her equipment, the suit, the ship, went dark, but the sample protocol continued.  

The man’s deeply wrinkled face shone like a halfmoon. His eyes, two burning pale points, scanned like guard tower sentries. A voice called. The man’s neck cracked to the sound, which lay beyond the edge. Listening, the astronaut could do no more than shudder.

“How can it be getting cold?” said the man. “Salads start cold…” His voice: raspy, broken. “But there isn't any roast beef… Because I checked the fridge… It doesn’t matter when; I just did… Listen, there’s something out here… Because I heard it…Maybe your hearing needs checking… That happened thirteen billion years ago. When will you let it go?” 

In the doorway, a woman emerged wrapping a shawl tight around her shoulders. The two stared absently into space until the testing machine beeped, and their eyes cut to the astronaut.   

“Look what it’s done to the facade,” said the woman. “There’s a hole right there… How can you not see the hole? Just look… Use your eyes... Right where I’m pointing, that’s where… You need your eyes checked... I said, ‘You need your eyes checked’, and ears while we’re at it. I told you they would come. Didn't I say that? Didn’t I say they would come and puncture the facade?”

The man tried to wrap his arm around her shoulders, echoing her shawl, but he was slapped. He returned with a light palm, but the woman arched her back like she had stepped into a cold shower. A tense whispered conference followed. The conversation ended with a ritualistic cross of the arms and an address to the petrified astronaut in space. 

“I am Gavineth,” said the man. “We, Gertrudinal and I, suppose you’d like to come inside.”

“There’s a zero hats policy though. No exceptions,” said the woman. “So if you want to come inside you’ll need to take that off. I won’t ask twice.”

“But there’s hot tea,” said the man. This caused the woman to exhale as though blowing out a billion candles and, head shaking (surrounded by candles), retreat inside.

What were the odds this was a hallucination? What were the odds that the astronaut would freeze and suffocate the moment she removed her helmet? Or that, by untethering the nano cabling and pressing into space, she would be destined to tumble in futility: a plastic bag in an endless breeze. The sample was secured; the tests could be run. The risks were great, the hologram’s instruction clear. Why then did she press off the nose and untether before the rope went taut, left to traverse that final gap on faith alone? The astronaut herself didn’t know. She had no idea what caused the pull.

In the doorway, the old man stuck his hand out and caught the astronaut. She gripped the doorframe like a pool’s edge and floated on the perimeter. With her free hand, and against several warnings, the astronaut removed her helmet and stepped inside.  

It was one giant leap for mankind, but it caused Leslie’s legs to buckle. She fought the gravity crushing her lungs each breath, and it was from the carpet that she took in the floral-pattern wallpaper, the faded Persian rug... She was most struck by the number of ornate lamps. These lamps graced every flat surface: the coffee table, the covered shoe rack, the wood-grained radio below the embroidered images of alien flowers…

Days passed before Leslie was able to stand and communicate. These were spent in the guestroom’s warm glow and mattress embrace, guarded by stout bookshelves and more lamps.

When Leslie was ready, she rose and staggered down the corridor whose walls were so thickly covered in picture frames that the images of embroidered flowers seemed like uneven brick. In the kitchen, her hosts were side-by-side chopping vegetables. From the doorway, Leslie watched, silent, and wondered how else the divine could appear. 

They ate in silence. Leslie was still unable to consume solids, so instead of eating she analysed her hosts’ every mouthful. A cucumber sliced in half, then again, then pierced with two of the three fork prongs, perhaps this held some deeper meaning. The table arrangement, the way the spoons hung near the microwave. What did it all mean? She was the first person able to find out. 

Ask an intelligent question, thought Leslie, before blurting out, “What’s the meaning of life?”

Gavineth’s jaw ground to a halt. He placed his fork (deliberately?) on a forty-five-degree angle to the saltshaker and his face went slack. In the cold silence, Gertrudinal squinted at his temple. Gavineth replied with a single head shake, leading Gertrudinal to face the brown-tiled floor with clenched teeth, arms again crossed.  

This silent exchange brought to Leslie’s mind another memory: a stubbled stranger, hair like coarse sandpaper. White coat with flipped-up lapel. He’s mouthing something. There’s so much pain. Leslie recalled this was the preparation table for the voyage, the three-year stretch strapped down: the injections and forced tubes down her throat, the cutting of bone fragments from her legs without anaesthetic. He, the stranger, is calling her the ‘chosen one’. It sounds ironic. Now he’s fleeing but despite covering his eyes, his face comes back to her clear, every atom defined. 

“I think those questions can wait,” responded Gavineth, bringing Leslie’s attention back. “You must still be tired from your trip. Why don’t we call it a night?”

“A night,” said Gertrudinal. She pressed off the dining table and fled the kitchen.

That night, Leslie lay atop the covers replaying the image of Gertrudinal leaving. As pale as Gavineth’s eyes were, Gertrudinal’s were equally as dark, like two endless voids. Leslie recalled those eyes burning through her from the doorway and for the first time considered that this place may not be what she thought. Outside, the testing cube still gripped the edge. The hologram’s instructions, clear: no matter what, get the sample to the testing bay. Had she been foolish? 

Leslie climbed out of bed and tore a book from the shelf. She flicked the corners; the page numbers rose but the distraction was not strong enough. She tried to shove the book back, but her grip was still weak. The book slipped from her hand and landed on the carpet with a thud. 

Suddenly she was jogging in her space suit. The ship stood like a hotel in the distance... There’s a tug on her arm from a man in a black suit and earpiece. He shouts to rise above the large crowd but something strikes his temple and he drops like that book on the carpet. His blood splashes across her visor. Another guard takes her arm. Together they sprint. Against the barbed wire fence, the protestors breathe like a single pair of lungs. They hurl projectiles, hold signs. YOU ARE LEAVING US HERE TO DIE. More armed guards, soon to be swallowed by the flames from the ship’s rockets, open fire on the protestors as they breach the fence. WASTED MONEY. THE COST IS LIFE. Inside the ship, Leslie ignores the dashboard warning that people are within the take-off radius. She launches, killing hundreds on the concrete below, leaving a planet of billions long since dead to come here - to come here and do one thing: get answers.  

Clinking sounds came from the kitchen. Leslie awoke on the bed; she had slept after all. 

By the sink Gavineth was brewing a coffee. From behind, his white hair pressed flat where it had touched the pillow and pointed like crooked fence posts elsewhere. On his feet were odd socks: one blue, one black. When Leslie said good morning, he jumped. His coffee spilled. He lowered himself to wipe the puddle with his cardigan sleeve and appeared anything but godly. 

Who is this? Where am I? “So, how long have you been here?” asked Leslie.    

Gavineth gazed up. “My dear, that question makes no sense. Gertrudinal and I cannot not be here… Wait, where are you going?” 

Leslie limped through the kitchen, using the dining chairs and counter like a walking frame. Once at the far wall, she tore back the blinds. Outside was deep space and her ship. She scurried to the opposite side of the apartment, falling twice. Again, she tore back the curtains and there, as if framed like embroidered flowers, was her ship. 

“Where am I?” she yelled. “Tell me where I am right now. Who are you? What is this place?” 

Gavineth leaned against the kitchen opening, stirring a fresh cup of coffee. He took a sip and grimaced. “Please, there’s no use.” He stared into the black liquid, a void. “Besides, you’ll wake my Gerty.” 

Leslie lunged to her left, ripped a lamp from the wall and hurled it. The porcelain base shattered. As Gertrudinal emerged from the master bedroom, Leslie tore away another lamp. She held it aloft and all the lamps (including the broken one) pulsed as one. The room flashed: black as space, bright as sun.

Confused, Leslie collapsed to her knees. She put the lamp on the table like a delicate heirloom and interlinked her fingers. She begged her hosts. “Please tell me what is going on.” 

Gertrudinal’s arms were again crossed, this time over a raggedy dressing gown. She glared at Gavineth and another silent conference ensued. They spoke with eyeballs and facial muscles alone, a language known only by two, developed over aeons near the kitchen. Gertrudinal employed a triple eye widening, so Gavineth shook his head at two different angles - the wrong angles. He followed up by pointing at the shattered lamp. Gertrudinal’s face softened, eyebrows lifting: a plea. 

The pulsing light stopped. “Fine,” said Gavineth.   

For the first time, Gertrudinal seemed to ease. She wiped the tension from her cheeks and smiled at her guest. “You’ll want to sit for this,” she said, and approached Leslie with her arms extended, head tilting like someone tending to a wounded dog.  

Leslie sat in the middle of the couch facing her hosts who sat on the coffee table. Gavineth carressed the lamp in his lap, while Gertrudinal leaned forward and held Leslie’s hand in her grasp. 

“Well,” began Gavineth, “when I was younger, I was rather bored so I needed a hobby. Gertrudinal suggested gardening. I was initially against the idea but I was desperate so I promised I would give it a go. Gardening proved quite challenging. At first, everything I planted died.” He chuckled, leading Gertrudinal to provide a swift elbow to his ribs. “Anyway, I soon got pretty good at the whole gardening thing. The things I planted began to flourish, so Gerty demanded” - another elbow in the ribs - “okay, ‘suggested’ that I start planting far from the outer door to make sure the things I planted didn’t spread to the house. This is our private home, you see, and Gerty doesn’t like unwanted visitors. So I started planting far away until eventually I grew frustrated with gardening and got into making lamps instead. A lamp is a beautiful thing; there’s a lot to master in the shade alone. Then there’s the base, the neck. You see-”

“You’re a plant, dear,” interrupted Gertrudinal. “Or maybe a weed, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh yes,” continued Gavineth, catching his own failed memory. “You and your friends are plants - not weeds, don’t listen to her. I’m sorry but I completely forgot, some time ago now; you know how it is. I never thought you’d spread this far. I never thought much of you at all, I’m afraid.”

“But I told him you’d come. I said, ‘Gavineth, you plant so close to the house they’ll come here, they’ll puncture the facade, and they’ll demand to be fed.’” Like a hot pan, Gertrudinal dropped Leslie’s hand. Wide eyes to the kitchen she said, “The salad. I forgot the salad. The salad’s getting cold.” 

When Leslie’s hosts shuffled to the kitchen, a new force pressed against her as compelling as gravity. It was as though time itself suddenly bore weight, the millions of years in isolation conspiring to break her - body and spirit - against the soft, old cushions. There were no kind memories to lighten the load. Those that remained were only cause for pain: the fleeing man, the launch pad inferno, the planet itself viewed from orbit: the continent-wide decay deep in its malignant march. Were these memories worth the answers? No. Leslie wanted to scream but had forgotten why. 

After eating salad and washing the dishes, Gertrudinal and Gavineth removed the coffee table and switched on the radio. The large, wood-grained device returned dull static as it waited for the couple to take their positions. On the couch, Leslie resembled a corpse: sunken cheek slopped on her right shoulder, upturned palms in her lap. She remained unmoved when the radio exploded with brass instruments.  

The couple swayed in a slow waltz, a practised and ancient orbit around the Persian rug. Gertrudinal’s temple nestled in the crevice of Gavineth’s shoulder. The couple’s white hair blended like two trees growing as one - one canopy, one heart. At their feet and all around, lamps and broken shards dimmed and rose in a soft chorus of light. An imperceptible distance off the floor, they floated.  

When the song ended, Gertrudinal kissed Gavineth at a precise point on his cheek. In response, he nodded at an exact angle. Again they kissed. When Gertrudinal hobbled to the kitchen, Gavineth extended a hand to Leslie, as the couple had just discussed.

Circling the same rug to the same song, Gavineth and Leslie swayed in a different way. She felt his hand move over the metallic feeding ports in her side. She sensed his eyes - his gaze - searching hers. But she faced the floor, at the broken mess she made.

“Gertrudinal and I love to dance,” he said. “Did you dance before you left?” 

Leslie pinched her mouth shut. She didn’t breathe. The pair made another orbit and the brass section, employing some strange form of contrary motion, climbed in pitch as a single tear on Leslie’s cheek fell. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know.”  

“I see…” 

Gavineth faced the opposite direction to give Leslie privacy, though at the same time he gripped her hand tighter and maintained perfect rhythm with each step.   

“You know,” he said, still looking away, “unlike making lamps, gardening is annoying. In gardening, you see, one of two things happens.” Gertrudinal appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea but only two cups. She smiled. The song continued. “Either plants die, or they spread. From the plant’s perspective this makes sense: the old habitat goes arid, the light moves, the water evaporates; it’s survival. But from the gardener’s perspective it’s so very annoying. All you want to do is create something perfect and for it to remain so. That’s the real reason I gave gardening away: the imperfection. To this day I don’t know what's out there.” He fixed his gaze on Leslie’s tender eyes. “What’s still out there, now, somewhere.” 

Leslie dared not look away. With a clenched jaw and trembling cheeks, she stared, less defiant than terrified. 

“Right now you’re asking yourself: Is it too late?” Gavineth smiled. “Well, maybe it’s not. Maybe it never is. Maybe such a question doesn’t even make sense.”  

When the song started again - for the eighth time, the tenth time - Leslie didn’t hear the melody. She missed the chorus and the verse, the lyrics and baseline. The radio was loud but the sound did not travel to the spaceship outside, to where the astronaut skirted the railing, entered the airlock. The song would play again and again - for eternity. It played while the astronaut destroyed the sample. It played as she wiped the database. It played during launch and later, helmet off, as she recorded the message for her future self:  

“If you’re watching this then good on us,” the hologram said. “We made it. I’m not sure what you’ve got left at this point, maybe nothing, but if you found people and there’s time - a day, an hour, a single song - then do me a favour: spend it with someone: spend it. And if anyone asks what you found at the edge, tell them the truth: you found nothing; you found nothing at all.”

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Comment from the author

Below are some thoughts from the author on the inspiration for this piece. I would like to apologise for the way I said the word ‘memo’. It haunts me.

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Profitron contains absurd, satirical and funny short fiction and prose. Literary influences include Pynchon, DeLillo, Vonnegut and Norm Macdonald. That’s all we have time for, folks.