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Cassandra's Vox

By D H S Davis All Rights Reserved ©

Scifi / Fantasy

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My Vox is an intemperate scoundrel, less of a pet, more of a cad; a cur. A calamity-prone Chimera, fully aware of the chaos it's incurred.


I am trapped in its wake; my Vox is a thorn in my side. A surly knot which commandeers then distorts realities in my mind.


It's been nine hundred and fifty-two days, since the return of the Great Methuselah ship, bringing with it, on return, of all things, the remarkable, dumbfounding "Shquip".


Of all that the Universe could bestow, with more than a hint of jest, it presented to the solar explorers, a near infinitely powerful chest.


Buried somewhere deep, in a saturnine moon's mountain, a tricky conundrum unearthed, a life fomenting fountain.


Each opening of the chest, revealed new and unusual life forms, many millions of times has it been opened since, its creations now household norms.


Little creatures, the Vox, it ejected: Capable of bringing to life innermost dreams. Initially, side-splitting and funny, until they pulled apart reality's seams.


I pleaded with my parents to have one until they finally caved in. I promised I wouldn't overspill reality, complain, or be part of the Experiential Din.


It only took two years, but eventually they believed. When we were introduced, my Vox seemed grateful to be received.


I'd never seen such a creature, with its iridescent flaps and hives. When it first brought my dreams to waking life, my heart could scarcely believe my eyes.


What child could accurately imagine, their bedroom breaking free of gravity? As I melded with such unstable matter, how was I to know this was experiential atrophy?


On waking from this semi-conscious moment, I sensed everything "real" had changed; I beseeched my Vox for atonement, pleading for the past from which I was now forever estranged.


The fear grew fathomless, as I saw what became of my home; "Insubstantiality" went the name, realities the Vox mutated and cloned.


But this cloning was not foolproof; there were errors in Experiential Sync, as I heard the reports of similar chaos worldwide, heart shuddered as mind stopped to think.


International laws made it difficult, to return the Vox back to from whence they came, entering and altering our perception worlds, we had only ourselves to blame.


Pleading with my Vox, I could no longer my desperation hide, I begged it to return to me my reality, but came short of the language divide.


Voxish is a complex language, which has never once been understood, the Vox are harlequins of heuristics, leaving lives like my own eschewed.


It wasn't always this way; it started out as a game. The Vox had shown me what I wanted to see. My Vox was well behaved.


It started showing its true colors, but then perhaps it always had. Anything composed of so many chromatic inflections, could not be trusted. Egad!


I have been trying to find my way back, to the world I lived in before. I think my Vox thinks it's winning. Its smirks suggest it keeps score.


New Vox were necessarily banned, for we'd let them get under our skin, their penchant for manipulating private perceptions, unreality crashing in.


We became prisoners of living layers, conjured up by us prisoners of the Vox. Deaf dumbfounded humans, curiosity our keys and locks.


Laws became irrelevant, differing from one reality to the next. In languages old, humanity, once bold, had been psychically and cyclically hexed.


I still had my emotions, at least of that I could be sure, but in this reality where everything happens in reverse, I am hopelessly desperate for a cure.


I'd barely finished middle school when these insane troubles began; my Vox relentlessly subjects me, to bewilderment with mischievous élan.


One experiential trammeling to another, I cannot fathom what next will occur. Every waking moment a reminder; the maniacal terror my childhood wish incurred.


I’m unable to control my dreams; that’s the worst part of this enervating curse. My Vox stopped being mine when it took my good life and made it bad, then made the bad irrevocably worse.


I've forgotten which life is mine, the infinite vacation is over, my mutinous Vox now simply the Vox, a volatile supernova.


I finally had enough; the day I awoke surrounded, five clones of myself, left me stupefied, my mind ineffably clouded.


These narcissistic mirrored apparitions; nightmarish; disappearing, then reappearing quintuplets. I'm armed and ready to do away with the thing, ending this infernal reality wherein I only think in limericks and rhyming couplets!

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