Archive of Trickster (1)
This series of digital collages and illustrations was created for Dead Project's virtual exhibition "Contain"
Writing for Archive of Trickster:
Why they needed to leave earth...
The Grandfathers sent them. They spoke words akin to creation stories, as a nasty fire raged in the village. Homes, gardens and the community gathering centre, all swallowed by hot flames in a matter of hours. The burning came from angry microlobe pushers, who had been tormenting the community for months attempting to set up an installation program attached to the birthing centre. The midwives had been able to ward them off, using the law of free will for Grassroots Communes (A law stating all communities who are not ‘on-grid’ are able to organize as they please, but must remain disconnected from the mainframe). But the law bends for those who write and enforce it.
Mikoto hid high up in a pine tree, atop a hunting perch, stifling the sounds of her own despair as she watched her home burn. Most families had evacuated in boats and were already kilometers away down the river. Some lingered behind, praying, screaming, panicking.
The sensor on her wrist flashed a message from the stones. The Grandfathers had been communicating with her for the past few weeks while she had meditated on their surface. The last time she had been with them was two days ago, and they wove her a powerful vision.
She was floating through a field of blue, then she felt her whole body being suctioned through a small pin hole. Every cell in her body felt malleable, as if she had the power to manipulate them all and send them anywhere she wanted. She came back into her body, with a knowing of the end of times on Earth. And now she sat and watched as the last pieces of the only home she and her family had known, drift up as red embers into the early morning sky.
Hours must have passed in that pine. The Grandfathers sent pulses out to Mikoto’s sensor, beckoning her to come see them. There was hardly anyone left in the smoky remains of what was home. Climbing down the tree felt like an automatic movement, as did walking through the paths of ash and refuse. Mikoto paused at her small cabin, which she had shared with her best friend Teka and his daughter Moss. She bent down and picked up some of the ash, smearing it between her thumb and forefinger. How was it that yesterday they had been laughing at Moss’s imitation of a cicada, doubled over on the loveseat and floor, in between sips of strawberry juice? Mikoto clenched her jaw, hard, as she felt the rage bubble up her throat, leaving her mouth as acid. She let herself release every bit of bile in her being until dry heaving gave way to empty gasps. Several deep breaths later, Mikoto continued on to the stones, not looking back.
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