When it arrived
it seemed natural.
We needed someplace
to dispose of the dead,
anyway. It was a blessing.
Soon we realized it was sentient.
It communicated through
a strange appendage
like several snakes
writhing in chaotic
orchestration.
By studying the perturbations
of the apparatus
experts claimed to understand
the creature’s desires.
Usually it wanted flesh,
though occasionally it would request
cocaine. The binges were
the worst. The appendage
flailed hyperactively
when it went on a bender,
mumbling indistinct
paradoxes to its readers,
driving some of them mad
with impossible thoughts
while the lucky ones
had weeks of night terrors
and a lingering rotten stench.
But the creature was right
more often than it was
wrong. It could predict
the future with above
average accuracy.
Not perfect, but
good enough to run
a casino out of business.
Murder vortex divination
became commonplace.
The appendage was consulted
for political strategy,
personal advice,
dating compatibility.
Before leaving the house
a young girl would check
the video feed on her phone.
A stiff appendage. He loves
me not. A perceived stiffness
was foreboding. No motion
meant death, disaster. A slight curl
in the tip was good luck.
These became the arbiters
of society. People consulted
the appendage for the kind
of coffee they should make
that morning. Opinion was split
on whether the thing was divine
or demonic. Thelemites danced
its circumference claiming
to have predicted its arrival.
When the fundamentalists
finally got around to shooting
at it, we realized that the thing
cared not for weapons.
Its surface was unable to be harmed
by bullets or explosives.
As far as anyone could tell
it was immortal. This is what
it had told us through its arm.
It could not be destroyed.
It had used a particularly
violent flick of the limb
to say this.
In school, children stealthily
watched the arm for answers
to tests, for advice on the SAT.
In video games they played
the role of murder vortex,
strategizing to consume
as many bodies
and as much cocaine
as possible.
The high score was
over a trillion bodies
and several thousand tons
of coke.
In the games,
instead of cocaine,
they called it diet cola
and gave it the appearance
of a soda can.
They did this to avoid
being censored.
Jay Dye is a poet and artist from California. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Calliope, Marathon Literary Review, Sapere Aude, and Scribendi. Her art has been exhibited by the Clyde H. Wells Art Gallery and on New Art City. She is also an editor for Tab Journal. She can be found online at jaydye.org, on Twitter @jayyyyyyydye, and on Instagram @ghostprincessxyz.