Botchi

Indigo looked out over the sandy plains and attempted to place in linguistic parameters the deep longing which filled her soul. Dusk was falling over the beautiful arid landscape. The sparse, drained vegetation sprouted limply from the earth, seemingly conducting a silent thankful prayer to the heavens.

Temptress to the pinnacle of masculinity, Indigo’s petty swathes of ringletted fibres curtain geometrically ‘cross the sun-reddened forehead, itself a hive of encyclopaedic cosmetica. The crystalline portals (just ‘neath) offer a sparklesome foray into desert camouflage teak, the milky border a particularly rude sideshow. Her weighty bridge encompasses both east and west, a startlingly abstract barrier between features and cold cranium. Following the jagged contours of the fleshy smell-stump is no pickling process when applied to the loving digit, lick-sword or toenail. Indeed, the pink cascade is a striking interference of the plummy cheekbones that ridge and rollingly carve the landscape of her happiness when she fixes that incisor-heavy grin.

With eclipsed lips, she rides the callings of the wild like a desert fox summoned by the evil pleasures of the glossy pages. Out of the bouche she spills a thousand yarns, empirical in their anti-social politic, grandiose in their nib. With several deft jabs of punchy and populist witticisms, she can turn a room-full of strangers into friends she had not yet met. Her baffling radiance is added to by the smoothness of her motion, aided of course by the small stabilising wheels attached to her anklets, perpetuating the fluidity of the trance. She will enter the room as if floating on a carpet of eggs, rolling in unison, handling any terrain as if it were the buffed tiles of an airport docking bay. The swollen calves bear witness to the ever-so-slight metal allergy that purposes her lower legs, slowly enveloping them in thin circlets, now up to the maxima of the muscular bulge.

Her thighs, rounded and toughened by the years of oxen work undertaken on her god-niece’s bran-track, power the ergonomics of her posture. Bolt-straight yet louche is the rumour amongst the chattering classes of the communities which she frequents, the crease-free flow of the tunic a stultifyingly informed showcase of carriage. One such vagabond would always cry,
“Granthamby, observe the greatness of her suave, the effortless juxtapose with our soiled flagons of cheap ale.” His argument, though not the most eloquent of fables, was a watertight one nonetheless.

To those of us lucky enough to have encountered her in coital matters, the unforgettable sight of the dinner-plate teats coupled with the breasts projecting forth like vomit upon release from the brassiere was an education in procreation, an induction to the necessity of swordsmanship. Her power absolute, she is never the learner. Athletic shoulders (her primary hobby-time plaything being hammer) square off her ample curves, offering a tantalising blend of silken robustness.

The magnitude of the triceps cannot be underestimated.

Playful and dainty, such as a dewy noon, her lute is an extension of the soul, a plucked hymn locking all who heard it in wonderment unparalleled. The accuracy of her pentatonics draws breath from the hearts of the most accomplished of fret-heads, her convenience with minor a callous showboating of the emergence of a true compassionate. This idiosyncrasy mirrored in her chin, the soft collection of deposits welcomes the academic with gusto and grace. Her ability to shift the goalposts to coerce someone into playing ball is the only fault in her make-up, an oversight that may cost her dear one-day no doubt perhaps.

Yet she is a synonym for life itself, a glowing tapestry of socialite compassionate and populist political radiance. A feathered dream of crisp white cloth set square on the family unit, the furrowed brow of the thinking man and his crumpet, the totalitarian ideal of woman. A dictatorship of the myriad of opportunity shelled in a clement buffer of skin. She is woman.

“Indigo, it will soon be nightfall” came the voice of Dr Oppz from the south-east ridge, piercing through several spatial hectares of the windless wilderness’s ether. “It’s another clear night and they will be hunting in pairs this evening. Indigo, Indigo, Indigo…” Oppz continued with metronomic persistence. Indigo could hear him well enough, but knew that they would not brave the plains until after midnight. The chance of running bare hipped through the dunes whilst plucking her favourite of lutes was a temptation that would not recede with prudence. Oppz’s sensibilities were the only obstructions to their love. Indigo’s desire for spontaneity always at loggerheads with the logical progressives of her beau, she cared little this eve of all eves, and untied the double-reef that fastened her tunic, allowing a tide of cloth to fall majestically to the sand. Picking up the instrument, Indigo skipped into the wilderness, hued in an august purple, and strummed the most naked of songs:

“Lopsided dreams fell arrowlike care,
My lute and I doth wish to share,
Twelve Satellites my vision snares,
Oh Milko Horst you wouldn’t dare…”

Indigo chanted these four lines perpetually throughout dusk, a testament to the time when Milko Horst discovered the duplicity of Ken Zealous. Darkness was now edging the dusk in to a hasty retreat and Indigo accordingly adjusted her song. Her fingers moved delicately up and down the lubricated zinc strings of the lute and she sang on in a doughty tone:

“River of death come wash my sin,
The temple still burns out of control,
My rapture takes no prisoners,
Murder is the tool of the forgotten clown.”

Indigo returned to her tunic and pulled it on, fastening it with a quick-release Hogarth knot. Her consciousness felt cleansed by the late night lyrical outpouring. It was now time to traverse the dunes back to the lodge. Indigo had no fear of the dune wanderers, who would be out searching for exchangables after the 24th hour, but she did not trust Oppz to fully deploy the overnight irrigation to all sectors within the ridge. Oppz was still considered to be the most brilliant young biophysicists in the lower regions but he was still clueless when it came to mobilizing the irrigation hood beyond aggregated local sites. Indigo broke in to a sprightly canter as she leapt over a sequence of dunes which had become almost plateaued by the breakshift of the desert winds. The ridge was now in sight and she could just make out the figure of Oppz hanging the Tunisian drapes on the outside of the main chamber.

As she approached, slowing to a walk, Oppz looked up, a massive smile emanating from his exquisitely structured face.
“Indigo my sweet, I have the Mangalore synopsis printing in room 3. This could be the final grouping of positives for the season, and I want you to be there to enjoy the deft click of the ream as it drops out of the feed. Please share this moment with me.”

They strode purposefully across the forecourt, lapping the westerly breeze with their tongues as Oppz lit a cigarillo. Indigo forwarded her glance to the impending outhouse that contained the data processor. Forcefully concealing her boredom, Indigo clasped Oppz’s right buttock tightly; the oscillations of her hand enabled her to permeate the cheap cloth and playfully pluck at the many hairs that adorned the meeting of glutinous maxima and hamstring. Oppz’s dual excitement, fuelled by scientific output and raw sex could not be masked, and he pawed his companion’s knees as they struggled onwards. The breeze had quickly built to a sharp hurricane, without warning, and the couple made room 3 as a granular wave of tidal proportions enveloped the secondary ring of crop regulatory condensers. Oppz forgot his erection as quickly as he had formed it, and drew relieved breath in the form of sweet tobacco.

The processor ejaculated its climactic binary code symbolically onto the tunic of Indigo as she strayed too close to the mechanical databrain. Unfortunately Oppz had forgotten to replace the cartridge of ink necessary for the data to be visible, and all was lost. Seventy blank pages lay formless on the floor at the feet of Indigo. She turned listfully to Oppz, shedding a pathetically apologetic tear. He returned the compliment in a paradoxical fashion by lamping her full in the face, beside himself with demonic fury at his partner’s lyrical outpouring to Milko Horst, the torturous words floating into the room, saddled on the swirlsome wind. Indigo had failed to account for the possibility of meteorological intervention and had thus chanced that the Earth’s breath would not come back on itself. As she lay quivering at the feet of Oppz she opened her mouth, silently praying that her dialogue would be of an adhesive nature, but instead the words that tumbled from her lips danced vaguely and silently into the valley of forgotten embraces, uncloyed to material referent. Indigo was about to strike Oppz on the left foot with a clefted ball-bearing but decided instead to diplomatically diffuse the situation by pandering to the male ego.
“Oppz, please refresh my memory as to why mankind will never unify mind and matter until it has inverted its usual suppositions concerning the causal ordering of language and mathematics.”
Oppz sighed, his chest pumping outwards for an external show to match the electric force of pride crackling within. He grabbed a thimble full of cool, pink, desert filsh from the supply stored in a large, inverted clay pyramid. He tossed the smooth liquid into his face and brushed his hand backwards through his hair so that small droplets of filsh hung from the ends of his thick, wiry locks. He began.
“How can it be conceived that there exists a state which man cannot penetrate with the mind? How can we ‘construct’ a physical entity where the laws of physics break down? Fools, fools! If we claim that the universe began at a point that we do not understand then we become grounded in our limited epistemological vernacular and cannot project theory beyond itself. This is not the case. We, as products and agents of time, invest the world with meaning and animate it with understanding. The universe did not begin at a singularity which we cannot penetrate. A singularity can only exist by reference to another, this means that the singularity suffers linguistic death as it is no longer singular. Thus an extraneous product must have been present to ignite spacetime otherwise we invoke a comatosed, omniscient nothing from this infinite something. We search in vain for an absolute metaphysical entity; instead we must delineate the ephemeral core of nothing located within us. This is the self-negating nothing wedged inside us that dies as it is given a name and becomes a thing. Therefore we must understand that it is the something and the nothing colliding and conflating that spawned the universe – try to imagine a greater meeting. The universe is an ongoing reconstruction: every aspect of it is contained in the inexplicable ‘now’. The beginning, the end and the in between: all is always now, the something and the nothing united in an ongoing phantasmagoric war. Oh to live and live and live…” Oppz finished his monologue almost weeping under the weight of his unquestionable genius. He slumped to the floor and grasped at the parched, orange earth with his hands. “…to live and live and live…”

Indigo had meanwhile left the outhouse to begin shutdown proceedings. It would be a busy day tomorrow as several of the workers from the village would be attending the chow mein market. She began to separate the day’s yield from the accumulated percentile manually, it would only take a few minutes and she preferred to circumnavigate the computational stairway. Indigo looked up and could see the stars shining brightly through the opening in the roof of the Imex chamber. She heard the familiar tread of footsteps approaching from the hexagon and did not bother to turn around as the person entered the chamber.
“Hullo” Indigo mumbled sweetly as she continued intently with her readings.
“Hello Indigo, where is Oppz, I thought it was his turn to decipher the yield tonight?”
“In the Eastern section, probably the outhouse if you want him.”
“You know that it’s not him I want Indigo” Moulon stated slowly as he wrapped his dark muscular arms around Indigo’s waist and gently placed his lips on her neck.

Next chapter…