Red Dot Irreal by Jason Erik Lundberg Read Free Book Online Page B

there.
    With the third bite, Mrs Singh perceived the sticky strings of the vast LifeWeb that connects all living beings. Ropes of infinitely thin energy crisscrossed through and around her, a visual and mental manifestation of the karma the fish had earlier alluded to. Every action she made had consequences somewhere on the web, and actions by others manifested results in her. The LifeWeb also extended backward and forward in time, to her past and future selves, and to selves that never existed or would exist. Never again would she be able to blindly go about her life without thinking about the impact that she made on the world.
    With the fourth bite, she came to the realization that her new perceptions would fade by tomorrow. As with all things, this perspicacity was temporary and impermanent. She would need to savor the moment, because it would not last.
    Mrs Singh wept for the fish's gift, eating every last bit of flesh until her wise friend was completely gone.

Hero Worship, or How I Met the Dream King
    The queue stretched a thousand people down past The Arts House all the way to the Singapore River. Each person clutched a precious text: a book, or a graphic novel, or single issues of comics; some hardy souls even carried the massive Absolute editions of his collected works. It was a response the organizers of the 2009 Singapore Writers Festival had not been prepared for, and still seemed somewhat baffled by. And at the very front of the queue, behind a plywood table, sat a literary rock star, the Dream King himself, signing autographs.
    I stood to the side of the table, trying in vain to catch his attention; he was wholly and utterly concentrating on the task at hand, giving each person in line his undivided attention for several precious moments before moving on to the next. His enthusiasts knew well of his patience, his kindness, his endurance, his appreciation. A sense of lightness and festivity filled the air as they stood patiently, waiting for their thirty seconds of audience with the master.
    The Dream King and I had traded direct messages on Twitter weeks and months earlier, hoping to negotiate a time to meet during his brief stay in the Lion City. But despite both our efforts, the festival organizers seemed to thwart every attempt, rushing him to and fro and barring any previously-unapproved communication. Luckily, a reader of my blog recognized me, and put me in contact with the owner of G&B Comics, one of the festival sponsors who had specifically organized to bring the King in, and all of a sudden I was being motioned over to the plywood table to shake his hand.
    “Hello!”
    “Hullo,” he said, a bit dazed, but smiling. His bottom teeth were slightly crooked, an unexpected detail. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, a weariness in his movements; he’d flown a very long way to participate in the festival, and was jetting off again the following day.
    He didn’t seem to recognize me so I gave him my name.
    “I know who you are,” he said. “I recognize you from your photo.”
    After some brief small talk, I thanked him for making the long voyage, and expressed appreciation at getting to take a few moments of his time. He mentioned looking forward to my tweets (to which I smiled and blushed), and wished me luck with the colicky newborn waiting for me at home. It occurred to me then that he still gripped my hand in a shake that had lasted several minutes, that we weren’t so much shaking anymore as we were holding hands, and that I really didn’t seem to mind.
    He thanked me for the copies of A Field Guide to Surreal Botany I had dropped off the day before; he had looked through his copy that night and remarked to me now on the premise and the gorgeous illustrations and book design. A Beautiful Thing, and worthy of recognition. He hadn’t yet told his girlfriend, The Dresden Doll, about her copy, as he had just placed it in her suitcase, but he would later that day.
    Then he pulled me