Iris
Norman Crane
Language: English
Pages: 46
ISBN: B00KAB1O54
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
If you can read this do not hit F5.
Listen to me. The next decade is going to be an exciting and hopeful time. You'll witness the birth of the eighth billion human on Earth and live through the revelation of Kurt Schwaller's theory of everything. It's important that you enjoy it, because in 2025 everything will change. I know. I lived through it. My friend Bakshi likes to say that we're locked into a single future. Iris used to say that no one can take away the past. I wish I knew what you looked like. I wish I knew then what I know now. But if Bakshi's right, at least you'll be prepared. You still have time. Between now and March 27, 2025, they'll try to tell you that a hundred different things are the most important. They'll be wrong. Live, love and imagine. And, if you happen to meet Iris, go ahead ask her about the theory. She'll blow your mind, too.
Hit F5.
Hit F5.
Hit F5.
phone. The media and the internet were feverish, but nobody knew what the thing was, just a massive, vaguely rectangular shape blotting out a strip of the sky. NASA stated that it had received no extraterrestrial messages to coincide with the appearance. Every government claimed ignorance. The panel discussions on television only worsened my headache. Bakshi emailed me links to photos from Mumbai, Cape Town, Sydney and Mexico City, all showing the same shape; or rather one of a pair of shapes,
streams and from the vantage points of circling news planes as Salvador Abaroa struck flint against steel, creating the spark that caught the char cloth, starting a fire that blossomed bright crimson and in the next weeks consumed all 163,821 square kilometres of the former Republic of Suriname and all 2,500,000 of its estimated Xibalban inhabitants. Despite concerns that the fire would spread beyond Xibalba’s borders, The Tribe of Akna had been careful. There were no accidental casualties and no
most friended account on Facebook. That’s why March 27, 2025, was such a joyous occasion for us. In hindsight, it’s utterly sick to associate the date with happiness of any kind, but history must always be understood in context, and the context of the announcement was a wirelessly connected world whose collective hopes came suddenly true to the jingle of a breaking news story on the BBC. I was in the kitchen sauteing onions when I heard it. Cutting them had made me cry and my eyes were still
streaker and—for a moment—the mourners cheered. Later, an investigation of Kurt Schwaller’s Dropbox account performed in the name of international security revealed that he had deleted large amounts of files in the days leading up to his suicide. The Mossad, Bakshi told me, had been secretly monitoring Kurt Schwaller for at least the past two years because of his Palestinian sympathies and were now piecing together his computer activities by recreating his monitor displays from the detailed heat
“Just take a seat, Mister, same as everybody else. Stay alert, stay calm. If you need water you can get it down the hall. We’re trying to get as many doctors down here as we can as quickly as we can, but the roads are jammed and there’s more than one hospital. That’s all I’ve been told.” I relayed the information to my wife word for word, once I found her—the waiting room was becoming encrusted with layers of incoming people—and then they shut the hospital doors—and my wife nodded, looking at me