All right. We’re all set! I’m super excited to share this with you, but because of who I am as a person, it requires a little explanation. And because I live in Colorado, it starts the way most Colorado stories start, with “This one time, while I was high…”
So. This one time, while I was high, I was trying to have a conversation, which is fairly challenging under such circumstances, as you’ll know if you’re consuming this site under the conditions it was created. I can’t remember what I was trying to say to begin with, but I do recall that I was interrupted by a failure of memory.
“I haven’t been to a Baskin-Robbins in forever; they don’t seem to have them as much here. I think I’ve seen one. Hold on… how many flavors is it? Their whole deal. Is it 31 flavors or 51? Fifty-one seems high. That’s a lot of flavors.”
My wife stared at me with ready enthusiasm but little sense. She was also very high.
“Never mind. Whatever. From now on it’s Baskin-Robbins, THE EVERFLAVOR.”
Many of my ideas come from misunderstanding or misremembering what someone said to me, or from offhand things I say myself. One idea collides with another in my head, sloshing together, bubbling in the barrel of my brain until the right words pound a tap into my skull and liberate a brew that knocks me flat. This was one of those moments.
I saw a Baskin-Robbins, and through the glass of the freezer, I saw things that were never meant to be frozen. I saw a little girl totally at home in a world where her ice cream might have tentacles in it. She’s too young to really understand that the world she barely remembers, the world of school and newspapers and governments that didn’t all worship a different unknowable horror, is gone forever.
Her older sibling Johnny understands that very well. They’re the only family they have left, and sometimes it’s tough putting the rent together, but the glowing thing that lives in the router seems to like them, and the cults that make crossing the city such a thrilling all-day activity have a strange aversion to the little girl they call “the Terrible Child.” Which is good, because Johnny can’t make her sit still long enough to finish a sentence.
Instead, Johnny’s been working on a book that maybe someday their sister will deign to read. They write down the answers to questions, advice of the right shape to drip right out the ear, rituals to live by and to avoid. They write down what the world was like before. Someone somewhere should remember.
So here it is. I give you… a pile of pastel dust and a cheap pun! Ahem. I mean, I give you: