Visual Distinction

Visual Distinction By: Jason Longbrake

A Short Story 11/17/2009

The old-fashion alarm clock had a different sound that morning then it usually did; but Ken Downy didn’t notice. He was mostly asleep when he reached over to the nightstand, firmly pressing on the stop; his designer pajama sleeve was rising up his outstretched arm, his long, thin fingers feeling desperately for the off button. He lain there a moment and collected his thoughts. He felt as you do when you wake up and don’t know where you are ; how you got there or even when. He had seen, after he fingered the sleep from his eyes, he was home. His hat hung on the same hook that he hung it on. When? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. He continued to look around. There were his shoes, muddy from the park; he remembered the park. On the back of an antique chair was his raincoat. On the dresser, there was a picture of his wife the year before she died of a hiking accident. She was the more adventurous of the two; he didn’t hike, he did numbers, he made money, she played with rocks and rope. He missed her. In the corner of the room sat a sculpture that he had bought in Spain off a weary peddler that he met in a back alley behind the shops. Next to it was another antique chair and on the chair was a note. He didn’t see that.

In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of milk, grabbed a doughnut and walked into the living room where he sat on the sofa, less comfortable than he expected, and ate his breakfast. He sat in silence. The TV screen was black. After he finished, he stood, he felt slumber and nausea. He felt that he could pass out; he had stood too quickly and the blood rushed to his head like a great wave, and an explosion of stardust filtered through the room within his vision. He sat down. I need to talk to somebody, he thought. About last night; about what he didn’t remember. Where is the phone? He searched for the phone for twenty minutes before giving up. It was missing? Then he noticed that his cell phone was also missing, and the remote to the TV, that still was black and soundless. What else is missing, he wondered. Nothing. The only items missing was his capacity to communicate to the outside world; the means to call for help. He shuddered a bit in the thought of something funny going on in his house. It probably wouldn’t have made much difference that he couldn’t find the phones or the remote. But not remembering anything added an element of fear to the equation.

And ripping terror sunk into him when he tried to leave; but couldn’t. He tried the back door, the front door, all the windows running from room to room. It wasn’t that they were nailed closed, or boarded from the outside; they were never made. When he drew back the drapes that hung helpless from the rod, he saw nothing but wall, seamless and never-ending, just continuity from one room to the other. He stood back and took a huge, confused breathe, and refocused, like looking at a mystical piece of art in a museum. He started to see what he failed to see before. He started to see his stuff, his things, his personal belongings that he depended on before to reassure him of his existence, his home, and his absolute normalcy turn flat, two-dimensional. He felt the picture on the wall, it was smooth, even the frame it was in, painted. The dresser that held his dead wife’s picture was a painting, right down to the socks hanging from the top drawer. The chair, the hook, and the hat that he had hung from it, were mere drawings and splashes of paint; his bed was real. Though it was plastic, like the milk jug, and the fridge and the TV; it wasn’t flat and lifeless. He wondered now if he was real; or was he just a painting; a memory on the wall of some...home or art studio or museum.

He walked back to his bedroom, his head down, his hand on his forehead. He sat down on the bed. He saw a note in the chair by the sculpture; this chair, not painted, though it was also plastic as from a dollhouse. He got up and went to the chair, grabbed the note and read: “Good morning, Ken. I hope you haven’t had too much of a disturbing morning on your first day. I tried to make everything just as you had it, to make you comfortable. I hope you’re not displeased. I’m sure you’re confused, as well you should be. My name is Doctor Maize, a scientist if you will. My studies have turned to the bigger picture of life, pardon the pun, none intended. My research development, with my ingenuous mind, has allowed me to solve our crisis that we have in our world. Of course we are approaching the year 2102, and of course you do know that we’re faced with a terrible population problem in our society. This is where you come in. You may or may not have figure out by now that you are a part of my experiment. What is that? It’s simple. My solution to population: Since we can’t make our grand world bigger, we need to make everything in it, smaller. Mr. Downy; Ken, you are the future. This experiment relies solely on your survival. You see, I need to see how long a man of your size can survive. And in case you’re wondering how big

you are... I will ease your mind. The size of a Barbie Doll, would be the best way to explain it, Ken. Ha, sorry, again, no pun intended. No need to know the details of how I did it. Your mind couldn’t even compute the information if I tried. I need you to live your life as you known it, but from inside your house only. You will venture for fresh air periodically, however, not until after the first week or so. I have several test that I need to run before releasing you to an uncontrolled environment; couldn’t have you getting sick, now could we? Anyway, I do have good news for you, Ken. Its about your wife.” Ken sat on the chair, beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck. He continued to read: “She is alive. She didn’t die of a climbing accident and her body never washed down the river into the swallows of the waterfall. She had been with me. She was our first test, Ken. We needed a female first; without the survival of a female being a success, the experiment would be pointless. Now, we need a male; you. You shouldn’t be too upset; at least we picked you for your wife, rather than some other man. There is one quam though. You can’t see her quite yet. You need to prove survival and full body function for some time before us going through with the reproduction experiment. Once we have completed the male section

of the process, we will unite the two of you, and then you and your wife will attempt to get pregnant. This could be the end of our problems.” Ken dropped the letter onto the floor in disbelief. Shock coursed through him, he couldn’t stand; he just sat motionless in the chair. Suddenly a burst of adrenaline and anger and protest surged through him. He ran for the painted door, spinning the plastic knob on its axis, hopelessly. He pounded, crying his wife’s name, begging for this nightmare to stop. He fell to his knees in a great sob. His head pulsed, his mouth felt dry, his hands felt cold on his neck. He took a breathe and looked up. Then cold fear smacked him in the mouth. On the ceiling, in the middle, was an eye; large and staring. It twitched, the pupil dilated in and out like and automatic camera lens. It blinked. He was watching him. Like a bug in a jar, he gazed down at him. His newest find; (watch out for giant pins.) He heard a voice, almost a whisper. It was coming from behind him on his left. The voice was a female and it sounded concerned. “Doctor?” She said. “Doctor, are you feeling fine?”

Ken felt a dreamy buzz come over him, he felt numb, and then normalcy started to surge back into place. His visi on that had gone dark started to revive, focus started to sharpen. He was in a chair, a stool, with black leather and no back. In front of him was a man, also on a stool. Between them was an optometry instrument used to check one’s eyesight. “Is everything okay, doctor?” Ken looked at her, “Mary Beth…” he said. “What year is it?” She looked at him with a confused face, “sir, it’s 2009. Are you feeling sick, you don’t look so good?” The man behind the large optical instrument peeked around it with concern. “Maybe you should go home and rest doctor,” Mary Beth said. “Home,” he said. “No.” He shook his head. “My wife…” He sighed. “My wife, she went on a hiking trip this morning. I think I’m going to meet her there.” Mary Beth smiled, “But doctor, you don’t hike.” “I think I’m going to learn.”