The Book of Revelation, Appendix A
Quinn Lui
THE BOOK OF REVELATION, APPENDIX A
by Quinn Lui
“Je n’écris pas pour être lue, mais pour être moins seule.”
— Suzanne Martel, Fille du Roy
(I do not write to be read, but to be less alone.)
I. SUN’S DAY1
[Transcription of a letter written during an unknown time period.]
My dear—
I don’t doubt that you’ve heard, by now, about the last unwise thing our peers did. At this point, I’ve formed the opinion that they only participate in such ridiculous undertakings out of some perverse desire to imagine how we must seethe. Do you happen to know how to contact them? It’s become very tiresome to be scandalized left and right and yet never be able to respond.
And truly, it feels as though such a long time has passed since last we were all together, and I want it the way one craves a rainbow after a thunderstorm. Butterflies after the chrysalis. I want the beauty of brightness, even if it’s something like sunrise on steel, so crimson it’s blinding, and you remember that, don’t you? They were dancing across some devastated war-ground a hundred years ago. A thousand, perhaps. Who knows? They were dancing, locked like an ouroboros, and (unintelligible) tried to spin (unintelligible) around; she caught his wrist and smiled more vicious than any swordpoint, and tipped him back herself. And then they laughed, both of them, like they had a hundred, a thousand times before.
Beautiful things don’t change; they’re stone-still and oh, yes, there must be emotion, but it’s emotion in flash-freeze and not in movement. Listen: I watched the Winged Victory of Samothrace2 rise out of the marble. Every fold of her clothing, every line in every feather of her wings. If you had asked me then, I would’ve said the world was ready to end. I would’ve said let’s stop it now, let’s immortalize it in this glory. Who wants to watch a downfall from the loser’s side, anyway?
What I’m saying, really, is that I want to see you again.
Yours, (unintelligible)
II. MOON’S DAY
[Transcription of a telegram sent on September 20, 1943.]
VIA TORONTO.
FROM OTTAWA ONT SEPT 20
(name of recipient, unintelligible)
MISSISSAUGA ONT
D51208 REGRET TO INFORM YOU (rank and name of victim, unintelligible) HAS BEEN OFFICIALLY REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION SEPTEMBER (day and year, unintelligible) STOP PLEASE ACCEPT MY DEEPEST SYMPATHIES
DIRECTOR OF RECORDS
III. TYR’S DAY
[Recording: The caller you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.]
[Message left 12:32 A.M.] (sharp voice, staccato syllables spat out)—stupid, that’s what it is. I don’t even know why you’re avoiding me. You can’t be angry that I was—that I was doing something, for once. Just once. (beat) It’s not fair. You watched the—the other two just, just waltzing across battlefields for millennia, and you had that same indulgent expression that made me furious, every time. So what’s the difference? Why does it matter so much more that I stood up and fought? (harsh breathing, click)
[Recording: The caller you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.]
[Message left 2:56 A.M.] (with controlled tension) I mean, yes, okay, I died. So does everyone. They’ve died, doing exactly the same thing I did. You’ve died, yourself. (beat) Besides, you knew I’d come back; we always do. We—we’re the only ones who do, of all the souls you watch slip away, and I know you’re around but you won’t talk to me, for some reason, and it’s been nearly fifty years now and I—I don’t even know why I’m doing this, and you’re the one who always loved change, anyway, so what’s your problem? Just talk to me. (click)
[Recording: The caller you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.]
[Message left 3:18 A.M.] (subdued) It’s not like I’m asking for much, am I? Just acknowledge me, I swear, just acknowledge the fact that I exist and you exist and we’re here. You’re not allowed to disappear on me like this, do you hear me? You’re not allowed. (humourless laugh, click)
[Recording: The caller you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.]
[Message left 5:34 A.M.] (stiffly) This is—this is highly embarrassing. (sardonic chuckle) See, I’m not in fact sure if you’re the person I was trying to reach. Or, perhaps more pertinently, if you (jumble of distorted syllables and static). Anyway. I’m sorry if I wasted your time. (beat) Goodbye. (click)
[Recording: You have four new messages. 12:32 A.M., Tuesday, June 4, 1985...]
IV. ODIN’S DAY
Draft Saved: Dec 15, 1999 at 1:58 A.M.
From: [REDACTED]
To: [REDACTED]
Subject: RE: Project Implementation Winter 1999-2000
Listen, you’re being reckless and shortsighted in a way that isn’t at all like you, I apologize if I was at all unclear. and this is going to sound strange but I know you better than you know yourself, right now. To reiterate: these instructions came from far above me, You’re being reckless and you’re flying straight to your ruin, and while you seem eager enough to put your career on the line, I am not. and I’m not going to play the Daedalus to your Icarus if I can help it. As your superior, the blame will fall on me, regardless of whose responsibility it truly was.
Yes, all right, I admit it. To be perfectly candid, I find the idea of sharing your proposals inoffensive. Since they tend to hinge on high-risk arrangements, however, I cannot agree with your plans. I’m afraid of change, afraid down to every last cell in my body, and you would be too, if you could feel this hunger for it. If you could feel how it wants to hollow me out into only a bone-deep ache that nothing touches. As well, the powers-that-be here happen to belong to a demographic that deals poorly with change. It might be accurate to say they find it threatening. I suggest that you turn your focus towards efforts that are more in line with your current responsibilities.
I hope you never, ever ask me this again. All the best.
Draft Saved: Dec 15, 1999 at 9:42 A.M.
From: [REDACTED]
To: [REDACTED]
Subject: RE: Project Implementation Winter 1999-2000
Listen, you’re being reckless and shortsighted in a way that isn’t at all like you, I apologize if I was at all unclear. and this is going to sound strange but I know you better than you know yourself, right now. To reiterate: these instructions came from far above me, You’re being reckless and you’re flying straight to your ruin, and while you seem eager enough to put your career on the line, I am not. and I’m not going to play the Daedalus to your Icarus 3 if I can help it. As your superior, the blame will fall on me, regardless of whose responsibility it truly was.
Yes, all right, I admit it. To be perfectly candid, I find the idea of sharing your proposals inoffensive. Since they tend to hinge on high-risk arrangements, however, I cannot agree with your plans. I’m afraid of change, afraid down to every last cell in my body, and you would be too, if you could feel this hunger for it. If you could feel how it wants to hollow me out into only a bone-deep ache that nothing touches. As well, the powers-that-be here happen to belong to a demographic that deals poorly with change. It might be accurate to say they find it threatening. I suggest that you turn your focus towards efforts that are more in line with your current responsibilities.
I hope you never, ever ask me this again. All the best.
V. THOR’S DAY
(Sent 3:30, January 19, 2017)
it’s funny but sometimes when i htink about how we are now vs how we were
(Sent 3:30, January 19, 2017)
it’s weird bc so much has changed but so much hasnt??
(Sent 3:32, January 19, 2017)
like w&c arestill always fighting
(Sent 3:32, January 19, 2017)
& they used to even when there wasnt anything to fight for, or fight abt
(Unsent 3:35, January 19, 2017)
Do you remember them flanking Boudicca4 and her daughters, and how their teeth glinted like the Roman spears across the battlefield? How their eyes were hard and thundercloud-heavy with the all-knowing that comes from being what they are?
(Unsent 3:37, January 19, 2017)
They know love like destruction, both of them. Always have. They know love and destruction as the same thing, and I’m a little afraid of them, even after all this time, and a little bit in awe. I want to feel what it’s like to understand your mind and heart and spirit so closely, so completely.
(Sent 3:39, January 19, 2017)
anyway on the other hand theres me n you
(Sent 3:39, January 19, 2017)
i mean idk what youre doign rlly. or what im doing
(Sent 3:40, January 19, 2017)
i feel like we should be doing something
(Sent 3:41, January 19, 2017)
w&c are fighting for good reasons now? like important reasons? so why arent we
(Sent 3:42, January 19, 2017)
like i guess im asking if u think were supposed to. or lik emeant to
(Sent 3:45, January 19, 2017)
idk what im saying rlly
(Unsent 3:59, January 19, 2017)
Do you think the world is ready to end?
(Sent 4:41, January 19, 2017)
i should probably sleep
✓ Seen 8:13, January 19, 2017
VI. FRIGG’S DAY
[Transmission from system H14G18, archived by system M01-T5 31/05/31.]
01001001 00100000 01101101 01101001 01110011 01110011 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101
[Translation from binary code to text: I miss you.]
VII. SATURN’S DAY
[Date unknown; some time after the end of the world]
Sparks float up from the campfire to join the stars, and it’s this, after everything, that inspires you to finally pause and indulge. There’s work for you to do. There’s always something to do. In this moment, though, in this moment only, you turn your face to the soot-dark sky and dream of flying through the heavens.
Behind you, a dark shape shifts. It should be a cause for concern. Most things are these days, and so everyone, from child to elder, lives and dies on the knife-edge of fight or flight. But this shadow is one you know as well as your own.
“I heard a story once about an old woman holding a metal rod in a river,” you say, and the uncertain steps scuff closer. Stories aren’t a currency for tangible things here, but everyone is yearning for soul-food, and you know hunger. Always have. “A little boy asked her what she was doing, and she said with perseverance, even an iron rod can become a needle.”
You let your fingertips brush closer to the dwindling flames, and your listener, nearer again, stretches out their hands, too. In the dimming burnt-orange light, you can’t make out details, but you can imagine: fine-boned and thin-skinned, verging on skeletal. Or perhaps they’re different now. Perhaps they’re heavy with strength, rough with calluses earned from the work of survival. Yours are, at least.
“And needles, what did they do?” you continue. “They could be used to stitch up clothes that a child tore while playing, or to embroider flowers and dragons and phoenixes. That little boy, do you know who he became? A poet5. The most famous poet in his country, some say. You can’t tell me poetry isn’t beautiful. You can’t tell me these things don’t take time—they take change, see—”
“And so beautiful things change,” says the figure in the edge of your vision, rippling through the smoke. The effect is of someone ready to dissolve back out of existence; the effect of that thought is to turn your insides to liquid, to melted wax dripping off metal feathers, to butterfly wings crumpling in on themselves.
“...yes. That was it.”
You let your gaze drop to the ground as they approach. There were old rules about fae creatures, back before the world remade itself. Old rules about will-o’-the-wisps and pixies and imps. Don’t look straight at them, or they’ll vanish. Don’t let them know you see them, or they’ll vanish, and you don’t want that to happen now. You’re not speaking to anyone more supernatural than yourself, but better safe than sorry. It’s a kinder excuse than fear.
“Where’s that story from?” they say, soft warmth in their voice like the dying heat of the fire. “It’s lovely.”
“It’s from where China used to be,” you say. “But I suppose no one remembers what that means now.”
“I remember.” It’s spoken softly, as if a confession can be a healing thing, a loving thing, so long as it’s voiced with care. As if this is what confessions and apologies have in common. “I do. I remember you—”
And Death, the fourth horseman of the apocalypse, says your name.
No one has called you Famine in years and years. But that’s who you’ve always been, as you waited for the world to make something that might fill the void of endless needing, this ache fierce and bright as burning. You have known hunger in thousands of ways, in hundreds of lifetimes, and you can only hope that somewhere along the way you learned to let it disappear.
You take in a long, shivering breath and hold it until it stills. “I know you do.”
Death reaches out a hand, and maybe every spark rising from the fire pairs with a star when it reaches the sky. Maybe somewhere around the world—if somewhere still exists—War and Conquest still chase each other with their comet-bright trails, the devastated earth their ballroom. You don’t know, can’t know. But maybe it’s enough right now to be here after the end of everything, Death leading you into a dance older than the first memory of the world.
______________________________
1. See “Chapter IX: Celestial Symbolism in Ancient Calendars.”
2. See “Chapter XXVI: Victory over Stone: History’s Greatest Sculptures.”
3. See “Chapter V: How Pride Comes Before a Fall.”
4. A See “Chapter VIII: Death or Freedom: Tales of Rebellion.”
5. See “Chapter XX: Words of Gold Thread: Lessons from the Lives of Writers.”
QUINN LUI is a Chinese-Canadian student whose work has appeared in Occulum, Synaesthesia Magazine, Half Mystic, and elsewhere. They are the author of the micro-chapbook teething season for new skin (L’Éphémère Review, 2018). You can find them @flowercryptid on Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram, or wherever the moon is brightest.
The Book of Revelation: Appendix A can be found in Augur Magazine Issue 2.2.