Agatha tended the Vortex. It was her punishment for not obeying the Prefect of the Labyrinth, from where all life was sustained. There were rules to follow, laws older than time, although there was no time as we know it, and she had disobeyed the rules by being herself. The Prefect had shorn her locks, bound her breasts, wrapped her in sackcloth, and banished her to the land of the Vortex.
Before the bombs had fallen in another dimension, in another space before color and metal determined time, she had been a dancer. Agatha had soared above the crowd; she had interpreted life on the stage of her trauma. She had been successful and had been able to support her extended family. Then the Labyrinth oozed into their lives. Subtly at first, then with more vigor. People clutched propaganda woven into fast food bags. Mobile devices tracked every communication. Young people were recruited into scouts. They were encouraged to watch their families for signs of sedition. There was dissension in the air and near riots in the streets. Books became evil, unless approved by the Labyrinth.
It was no longer safe to dance. Dancing was considered promiscuous and dangerous. Artists were closely watched for signs of Labyrinth induced schizophrenia which led to treason. Facial and body attributes were monitored. Agatha possessed large hands and feet, a long, regal nose, and an olive complexion, but these were considered signs of anarchy and destruction. Her family was banished to a warm place and she was seized to work in the Vortex.
The creatures. They were neither human, animal, insect or plant. They rose and expanded, part smoke, part dust, part mistโevery hour on the hour, although there was no time as we know it, and then subsided like a fountain swirling and dripping into a sac. They were both vulgar and divine. They drifted in shades of apricot and violet, celadon and blush. They bled in clots and drops. Deemed immortal by some; indelible; and yet pliable and mutant.
She worked from tin to bronze, for time was modulated in metals, tending, nurturing, and keeping the fragile creatures from destroying themselves. They were strong yet porous, and could not contain their energy as they ascended and descended. Agatha wheeled from creature to creature, adjusting and confining their auras. They could not escape themselves, neither could she.
As the light turned silver, a sign that her work day was almost over, Agatha wiped the dust that coated her bald skull with the shreds of a pink silk scarf, her only memento from the past. She had stuffed the silk in her mouth before she was seized and banished to the Vortex. She stretched sore and gnarled arms and wept from relief. Sliding among the creatures during copper, bronze and silver intervals was arduous. Inhaling the elements of the Vortex inflamed her lash-less eyes. She rolled back to her cell, as walking was no longer part of her skill set. At the door to her cell, she unattached her wheels, a prerequisite to her life and to her survival. She never knew who took them away, but they appeared every morning.
In her cell, next to her pallet, was the nourishment of the evening. A jug of liquid, water, as we knew it, but now with a tinny taste that hurt her tongue, a plate with compressed protein cubes, and pills, powerful mind-bending narcotics, to keep her obedient. It was hard to swallow the pills. Her throat felt lacerated as if filled with razor blades. She hid most of the tablets under her pallet and in a tiny hole she had scraped into the stone wall, during sleepless nights.
The creatures were quiet now, settling down into a time frame of dormancy. Although never completely inactive, their energy was sluggish, sloth-like during silver, they remained in their shells, waiting.
As silver slid into white then yellow then rose gold, Agatha slept. When platinum briefly blinded her, she rose and dragged herself to the sink that allowed one minute of moisture a day. Her skin was parched and she used the moisture to bathe her eyes, mouth and face. She then prepared for the tasks ahead. There was always a fresh sackcloth in her cell. Always a small jug and platter were there to keep her aliveโbarely alive but functional.
She never knew who came in her slumbers to replace and refresh her meager existence with cloth and sustenance. She surmised the Prefect had enforcers to do their bidding. There was an order to their non-life; that was irrefutable. It was the new order.
Agatha refreshed herself as best she could, donned the fresh sack, and found her wheels at the door to her cell. If she had cellmates, she never knew. Her corridor was empty and silent, but she saw other doors, unopened, with polished doorknobs. As she wheeled past, she wanted to bang on the doors and ask for entry. She yearned to revolt and escape, but a centrifugal force always propelled her to the Vortex.
It was copper and the creatures were energized, spewing mucous, ashy vomit, and needle-like sprays of feathers. Her face stung from the assault. She dusted, reformed, mopped, and realigned the rascally creatures, who were essentially vain and proud of their forms. She had tin to regroup and realign her wheels. The paths of the Vortex were spirals, difficult to navigate, as the creatures expelled and absorbed their essence.
Agatha struggled with her duties, and kept part of her mind free. Would she ever see her family again? Was her fate to spend an eternity in the Vortex, legless, alone and unloved? She wanted to die but for that she needed permission from the Prefect. As she rolled back to her cell, mentally preparing for another bout of sleep, she decided action was needed. She brought her wheels into her cell. She waited for the wheels to be seized, but no enforcer ever came. They must think her too weak and unimportant. Or perhaps the Prefect was involved in some bacchanalian revels and had forgotten about their pathetic slave.
Again, she dreamed of her family, lost in a recurring nightmare of flames and gas. In her heart she could hear their screams. When platinum blinded her, she awoke and knew they were gone. Rage seized her. She went through the motions of washing, drinking, but could not eat. Agatha took every pill she had not swallowed and hid them in the metal tubing around her wheels. She hurried, but her fingers trembled with the knowledge of what she was about to do.
The halls were empty as she was drawn to the Vortex. The radiating force that led her to the creatures was strong and unyielding. She looked up, a painful action, as she was almost level with the sloping ground, but detected a pale light. She remembered the moon so fondly. How she had danced and dreamed under the starlit sky, bending and swaying with ecstasy, in a happier time, when her body had been alive with prisms and melodies.
Now, she was a slave, a caregiver to life forms that resembled epileptic swans, furious, snapping vulvas, and inedible crustacean claws. Blue mammal trunks, pale carp that goggled, and psychedelic artichokes, these were her children. She was the nanny of Hell, Hell as we knew it.
Agatha unscrewed the wheel and dragged herself from creature to creature, distributing pills, stuffing and shoving the spectrum of narcotics down the orifices of her children. She tended to them all and then pushed herself to the top of the Vortex and waited. As bronze emerged, strong and indestructible, the creatures destructed. One by one, they exploded. Self-decimation was exhilarating, it was a conversion of the creatures to divine matter and a transfiguration of herself, body and soul, as we knew it.
When The Vortex exploded, with one final shudder, Agatha leaned back upon the debris and felt peace. Then she was gone.
Felicia Carparelli is a teacher and musician, writing in Chicago. She has been published in Tiny Love in the New York Times, FlexxMag, The Rhubris, Coping with Cancer and Cure Today. Gotham Writerโs workshops have helped shape her writing. Her mystery,ย Tile M for Murder, Bella Books, February 2024. Her thriller, Killing Mr. Darcy, darkstroke Books, 2022. She is working on a series of short stories about people morphing into creatures, inspired by Greek myths, banned books, and Japanese ceramics.She writes essays on her own experience as a grandmother and cancer survivor, and as a skeptical and intermittent Catholic, who finds solace in the tears of the devout. Visit her at www.feliciacarparelli.com.
