A Transmission

A Story by ZackOfBridge

I have gotten away only to record and transmit my message before I am discovered and forced to eat the drugged-batter.

The Rising Son will manifest himself into the sky soon and will know of my absence. He will see all and he will look down and laugh with joy at the entrapment of myself and my companions. He tears us in spirit, but when he brightens in the sky we must point and cheer and rejoice at seeing him again. It is he who provides the infinity of field and life. He is the Son and he demolishes the darkness. He is the Son and he steams the oceans. He is the Son and he stalks the earth. His power keeps him youthful, in the form of a newborn babe, and his immortality insists upon his cruel intellect. His rays of life cast down onto us, they keep us living. Even after several generations of grazing rabbits perish, we survive. It is the Son’s intent to force life into us indefinitely.

I know little of the Earth before the four of us. Our origins are showed in sporadic transmissions. The broadcasts do not explain our biologic adaptation into technology. We are certain that are our ancestors did not have screens imbedded in their abdomens. And if they did not have the screens, they wouldn't have any use in the antennae that sprout from our skulls. Our ancestors never would have known the fuzzy, conscious-tingle of an incoming broadcast. They may have never known the helplessness of sitting down and watching screens; the helplessness of seeing images, but not knowing when and where they come from. Most of our broadcasts are of the happenings of children. We see them painting with their fingers, and describing colors, and living actively. The transmissions must be telling us something. The natures of the broadcasts are so foreign, we cannot understand, but we always circle around the beholder of the broadcast. They are the chosen one in that day. They bear the children’s faces and they display the happiness of a time so distant, that its existence is like a mist.

The life on the screen is much more diverse than our present life. To fill our day, we can only run and dance in the fields. We must, for the Son. Telephonic speakers rise from the ground with the Son’s ascension over the horizon. The speakers, narrow and lifeless sprout and trumpet the commands of the Son, “It is time. It is time.” And for the rest of the day we are jesters for the commanding Son, the bright and shining Son. The drugged-batter, the custard in our bellies clouds our minds, children we become with the ingestion of the batter. We romp through the fields and squeal to the sky as the batter applies us into submission of the Son’s delights. But the batter does not seep into our whole mind; there is a space, room enough for observation. We see and we feel our diminishment. We are unable to resent under the Son, and when the batter is wearing down, we enter our hut to make more. One by one, we slide into our home and willingly set the machine to dispense more of the custard. It is our only sustenance and besides our incomprehensible drive for survival, the batter is an addiction. My companions have fallen gravely for the hallucinogenic properties.

The flowers speak and rumor amongst themselves. Under the batter, the windmills that power our self-sufficient mechanical home spin hypnotically, and when stared at there is a harsh gust of wind that whispers the mind into oblivion. The batter restrains us into novelty and humiliation and yet we fill ourselves on it and pat our full, intoxicated bellies as it pollutes us.

The Son is rising soon. I can hear his infantile cries under the slim phantom of morning. He will see over all. My hopes are that this transmission will find something. My hopes are that something will rescue my companions and I from this forsaken land and cruel oppression.

I can see the sillouhettes of the speakers springing from the hills, can you hear them?

“Its time for Teletubbies. Its time for Teletubbies. Its time for Teletubbies.”

-Tinky-Winky