Pocket Full of Loose Things

A Serpent, A Servent, and A Hermit (Loosely tangential Star Trek Nonsense)

We will now take a short intermission.

Do not fear, as this is nowhere near the end of our story, nor is it truly anywhere near the middle, although to say that this is the beginning would be false. It was simply useful for a few items of the past to be shed light upon for your viewing.

You must be patient if the meaning of these objects is unclear to you now. If things were to be clearer, as is true in all things, nothing would be appealing. Behind the thin veil of ignorance is something so grotesque you must forgive me for sparing you at this time.

Within this section three slices of time have been curated for your viewing. One might say that these slices come in the order of past, present, and future. But I must ask you, dear reader, what, in a tale so smoothed by the sands of time, constitutes the past? Or the present, for that matter?

Dust to Dust

Our first tale begins on an unusually warm winter evening.

A storm rages above a small midwestern town, somewhere between Appalachia and the great louisiana river, north of the mason-dixon line, but south of the great lakes. In the middle of that storm, above that small midwestern town, something big and black and angular hovers.

If you were standing outside in that town, you might notice the sharp smell of ozone- typical of summer storms- as well as an overwhelming scent of holly, indicative of the upcoming winter holliday. None below were aware of what was about to occur from above, and none would know once it was over.

There was great disappointment in the children of Cloversfeld, for that is what that small midwestern town was called. It was supposed to storm, according to the forecast, and all the children in Cloversfeld had done the rituals that all children do when hoping for a snow day. Although the practice varies from town to town, and from child to child, rituals such as those have a 65% chance of influencing the weather- a little known fact. Despite this, the weather was uncooperatively inclimate.

Within the big and black and angular thing, a figure waits, impatient.

"Pétr. How much longer?" they whined, draped across the helm chair dramatically.

"According to spatio-temporal readings, my grace, approximately sixteen point three-five minutes. No interference detected."

"Lovely. I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible, get some real fun in before they make me go back. The palace is ever so dull."

Pétr grinned "Of course, my grace."

Below the big and black and angular thing, a man named Logan Howlett drives home through the storm in his 2013 Honda Civic, blinking rapidly to try to make sense of the abstract shapes in front of him, obstructed by the slanted rain.

On the radio, an old tune crackles through the speakers.

"Little darlin'... It's been a long cold lonely winter..."

The man grunted "Yeah, that's what you'd expect, isn't it? What kind of shit weather is this?"

"Here comes the sun, do, do, do, do..."

Logan took a swig from the half-empty bottle of cheap beer in his cup holder. A long day of work, and what felt like an even longer drive home.

This man could be forgiven for closing his eyes for just a moment, his eyelids were indeed heavy, and his brain filled with fluff like a well stuffed puncture wound.