Mushroom Consciousness

The steps of the Art Institute winded half of Bill; the other half already dead, brutally murdered, nine months past. It was Valentine's Day. The day of love for the in love and the day of amplified bereavement for the lonely, or maybe this was only what he liked to believe as to gain solace.

Bill Stevenson entered the large marble enclosure. Why did I come to the art museum, of all places, he wondered. Why on this day? He turned left at the first available opportunity, entering the paintings section, west... to the artistic promise land?

Couples meandered about him, seeming genuinely happy, linked at their hands and all. He squeezed the air; there was nothing. He swallowed the tears, moving on. At each painting, he beheld what his eye had to offer. Perhaps this is why he came. Unlike the label attached to the day, he could make it into any thing he wanted. Today, in this place of all places, whatever Bill's eye wanted to see, he would see.

Approaching a large painting, he stopped. In the painting stood a couple. They were in the woods, holding baskets of Morel mushrooms--of all things. What a queer painting, he thought, but he liked it. The description said Mother's Day. Apparently, the two had encountered each other while picking mushrooms during the weekend the Morels typically come into full bloom. The woods behind them were beautiful. Never had Bill seen such green, such life. Bill took a liking to the fellow in the painting as well, a liking that bordered true empathy.

The description also said the couple never returned from their mushroom trip...

Of course this was all what the artist beheld when he applied his brushstrokes; however, this too was what Bill held in his eye. Why had they not returned? he wondered.

His wife had never returned either, from her trip to the supermarket. She was killed. Someone, some stranger, had knifed her to death; four stabs in the stomach and one through the neck. The last image Bill had of his wife was her mangled body lying on the cold, metal table in the white room of the morgue. The white had given a sharp contrast to the red body paint.

Bill, swallowing tears, suddenly realized he was no longer alone.

"Hi."

Bill turned to his right. A woman stood before him.

"Hi," Bill returned the greeting. His eyes locked into hers. They were brown with a touch of bronze lining the pupils. She smiled while Bill smiled back.

"I take it you came solo today, too?" she asked.

"What makes you think that?" He gave an inquisitive yet confirming smile.

"It's Valentine's Day. The day that reminds you how alone you are if you go into public as you stand, and as we stand. Alone. Well, we have each other now, at least. People will probably think we are together, you know." She smiled.

Was she flirting? Bill wondered. The better question was if she were indeed sending out the bait, would he take it? Would he bite?

"I suppose you're right, but... I am not looking for anything, so you know. I--My--" He stopped. He was about to tell this stranger about the deeper morbid layers of his life. No one but his lost wife's family knew about this layer. Yet, he wanted to tell this woman. The bait had without a doubt at least intrigued him.

"My wife was murdered nine months ago. I'm afraid I am not ready for a relationship, if that is what you're getting at." Bill looked away from her and back into the painting, finding a comforting remedy for the thick web of awkwardness between them.

"That's fine. I killed my husband just last year, so I know how it feels, in a way." Bill's stomach dropped. He turned to face her again, eyes bugging out of his skull.

"I've seen that look many times. Most people follow with a laugh, assuming I must be kidding. I'm not though. The bastard deserved it. Either I killed him or he killed me." She turned to look into the painting. Neither of them said a word for quite a while. She broke the solid silence in the end.

"And by the way, I'm Tonya, so you know."

"Bill. Nice to meet you, Tonya." As he said this, he realized he didn't care in the slightest that the woman before him was a murderer. He supposed that at the core, they shared the same problem, and on a day like today, perhaps this could be enough. It is strange how distorted humans can be in their rationalizations, when you think about it, he thought. Maybe that is all rationalizations were; distorted manipulations of what would otherwise be uncanny sense; canny perception.

"You know, I like this painting. For some reason I feel like I relate to this woman. Now I need my basket of mushrooms. Do you, too, like the painting? Do you find yourself like the man?" Tonya gave him a smile and a touch to the arm. The people around them drew quiet, or so he thought, when their skin touched. A moment of stranger's stares--right?--and then the space around them regained life... or at least canny perception.

"Yeah, I do. I like it and I find myself to be like the man, that is. I would rather be there than here, to tell you the truth."

"Me too." More silence. Bill missed his wife. Little did he know, but Tonya missed her husband, too, but maybe he did know, though, because before he could tie his tongue, he was asking the question.

"Why did you do it?" They were holding hands. When did this happen?

"I am glad you asked. No one ever asks. The answer is that honestly, I don't know. Like I said, he would have surely killed me. He was an abusive son of a bitch, and I could never figure out why."

"Drink?" Bill said. "That's usually how those things happen." And he would know.

"I know, but no, he was never much of a drinker. I was more of one than him. It seemed that I was always the only one he took a grudge to. I say grudge because with everything I did and everything I said, it was as if I shouldn't have because I already should owe him something that was greater than anything. I even asked him if he wanted a divorce once. He implied it, you know, but, he said no, and slapped me across the face, popping a few blood vessels in my eye when he did." More silence. Tonya let the words percolate and Bill accepted. It was a lot to take in. Although in a way, he had already taken in something of the sort nine months ago.

"I was an ass to my wife, you know. I was your husband to my wife. I never could figure out why, either. Sometimes, I would get the urge to snap her neck. I'm being blunt because I feel like you understand, no?"

"Yes," she quickly said. On the flip side, that is.

"Hearing you're story I am surprised she didn't kill me like you killed him. She wouldn't have, though. I would have killed her, sooner or later. She never did anything to me... but she did. If that makes any sense at all. Someone else beat me too it, though. I miss her, Tonya. Now the subjective grudge is menial, pointless."

"I miss him, too, Bill."

They were still linked at the hands.

"Forces of the universe."

"What?" Bill asked.

"Maybe that's what it was. I'm not religious, you should know, but I do believe in intergalactic forces. Cosmic motivation, if you will. Maybe the universe had it out for us--me and my husband and you and your wife--from the beginning. Like an unstable chemical reaction. Sooner or later one of us was bound to explode."

"Yeah. That makes a lot of sense." More than Tonya knew, too. Bill put an arm around her shoulder. "Happy Valentine's Day, by the way," he said.

Tonya rested her head on Bill. Quite warm, she thought.

"Happy Valentine's Day to you, too," she said.

Then the painting moved. The muscle clenching in both of their bodies was enough subliminal communication to let the other know that they had seen it too. The room was empty except for them, and then there was nothing. They were gone. Into their brains, Morel's in physical structure, they went.

However, they still remained, standing...

Plucking a mushroom from the porous soil, Cornelius then dropped it into his basket. Blood from his hand transferred to the mushroom. Noticing, he wiped the blood free on the nearby patch of dew-covered grass.

He turned and looked back to where he had come from.

The mound of soil protruded from the ground.

I hope that no one finds it, he thought. He walked on, picking more mushrooms as he went. Soon the bloodied mushroom was hidden from view. Birds chirped about him, singing their springtime songs, the encompassing forest a verdant green.

Across a gleaming and iridescent meadow stood a large Elm tree; the breeding ground for his succulent morsels of plucked fungus. Approaching the tree he found nothing on the side facing him, so he rounded.

A woman stood before him. They stared at each other. Their eyes then shifted to the one mushroom between them.

"Mine or yours?" Cornelius said.

"Ours," she replied. "Darlene is the name."

"Cornelius."

"Pleasure to meet your acquaintance," Darlene said.

"Pleasure is all mine," Cornelius replied. He bent down to pick up the mushroom for the two to share. The knife fell from the fold in his toga-like clothing. Darlene gasped; she had seen the blood.

"I--skinned a rabbit earlier. Don't mind that," he said.

"Oh, is that so?" A look of pity formed on her face, but was quickly replaced by a smile, genuine too, by the contracting of her eyes.

"I don't care what it's from. Distracts me from my issue."

"And what might that be, my dear?" She stared at her bare feet, allowing the grass to sift through her beautiful toes.

"You can tell me, you know. It's not like I don't have my... you can tell me."

"I left my husband, and son, too, I suppose. He found out I slept with the blacksmith, and freaked. He beat me. So, I left him. My son cried, but he came with the price. I know it was my fault but... this is the way it ended up. It wasn't even me doing it, really. God seemed to want it to play out as it has. Do you know of what it is I speak of, Cornelius?"

"Yes. Let's just say this knife wasn't for a rabbit, okay?"

"Okay. Do you want to join me on my mushroom hunt?" She asked, fluttering her eyelids laden with thick, curly lashes. They were in the middle of an open grassy meadow where the lone Elm tree stood.

"I would rather like that," said Cornelius, standing up and extending an offering hand. Darlene took it. They walked on.

"You know, Cornelius, I am already taken a strong liking to you. Do you feel the same?"

"I do."

"What would you like to do about it?"

"Let me show you," he said. Cornelius pulled her to the ground and undressed her. They made love in the grass like a doe and buck. The animals watched.

"I am a painter, you know," Cornelius said afterwards while bending over to pick another mushroom.

"Is that so? What do you paint?"

"Well, I have only just begun. My wife never wanted me to do it, but... she's gone now. So I am going to do it."

"I think you should," said Darlene.

And he did. He painted a couple; man and woman, standing staring back at him. It was a reflection of what used to be. He was one half and the other was now a mound of soil in the ground. Darlene didn't have to know that, though. She would be better off that way.

"Darlene, my dear, what do you think of the painting," he asked. They were in the meadow, the same meadow that they met in, now a year later. The painting leaned against a bordering tree.

"Here, hold this." Darlene handed him her second basket full of Morel mushrooms.

"Why, it's beautiful! I feel like I know these people, Cornelius. I really do. They remind me of us."

"They do, don't they. Maybe that is what I had in mind." Of course, Cornelius knew the real reason; the mound of soil, and him, were the real reason; these people of artistic fiction were simply caricatures for what was... or could be?

The baby, sitting in its wicker basket a few feet away from the painting, began to cry.

"Oh there she goes again. I tell you, this baby is always making a fuss. She is going to make one man very aggravated one day if she keeps this up. You know it's true Cornelius. Tell me you know it's true."

"It is true, no doubt, my dear."

Cornelius added a final brush stroke.

"Perfect!"

Cornelius and Darlene carried their child to the Elm tree, the Elm tree they had first been acquainted with one another a year before. Darlene laid out a blanket and sat upon it with their baby girl as Cornelius watched.

"You know Darlene, a year ago today was the day you became a mother."

"I was already a mother, you know that," she said with a touch of scorn to her tone.

"Yes, I know, but today is the day you became a mother in regard to me. Let us call today Mother's Day, in honor of you. What do you say, my love?" Cornelius had taken out his pipe and was drawing on thick clouds of tobacco.

"Oh you and your crazy ideas. Fine, we shall call it that."

Silence. Cornelius smoked while Darlene tended to their child. The birds chirped about while rabbits bounded through the meadow grass.

"What a beautiful day, my dear," said Cornelius.

"You know," said Darlene, "Wouldn't that just be something if our baby girl met up with my estranged son one day?"

"That it would. We should hope for different things though, that would be inbreeding of the sort."

"Oh, technically we're all inbreeding, Cornelius. Why do you think so many of us are liquid in the head?"

He drew smoke, pondering.

"That you are right, my dear." He thought of the mound of soil, and the knife.

He looked upon his new wife.

"That you are very right, my dear."

By his foot stood a Morel mushroom; bending over, he plucked it from its roots.

"Excuse me," said the voice.

Coming into consciousness, Bill looked to his left. The museum guard, dressed in a black suit, stood before him with a look of confused concern.

"Yes," said Tonya. Bill, for whatever the reason, could not bring himself to speak.

"The museum closes in five minutes. Are you two okay?" said the guard.

"Yes, we're fine, thank you. Taken away by the artwork is all," Bill said, chuckling, and more at the falseness of his response than anything else. At least he could produce words now.

"Okay, good to know. You two have been standing there like mindless fools for some time now. A fine old couple grabbed me from the desk and said there was a pair of young folk that may need a hand in the painting section. A real fine old couple, I may add. They said they are celebrating their fifty-eighth anniversary this Mother's day. I don't know why they found it fitting to add that. Anyway, carry on. Be out in five minutes and we wont have a problem." The guard walked away, whistling as to pass the time.

Tonya and Bill locked eye contact.

"What happened?" asked Tonya.

"I don't know. I feel strung out, as if on the come down of a nasty high," said Bill.

Silence. Neither of the two had any recollection of anything. As far as any passing museum goers were concerned, nothing particularly happened at all; just two crazies zoned out of their minds before a mediocre painting of a couple carrying baskets of mushrooms. Probably had a few too many mushrooms themselves, one fellow projected as he walked past the two.

"Listen, I should go," Bill said. Sweat had collected on his forehead in an array of opaque beads.

"Same. Listen, if you ever need anything, or just want to chat with a friendly stranger, here." Tonya withdrew a card from her leather purse. Bill took it, reluctantly. "It's my number. Call me any time." She smiled and walked off. Bill watched as she exited the room, trying to process the thrashing squid of emotional intuition in his stomach.

Bill waved to the guard as he exited the Art Institute. Stepping into the cool February air, he had one thing on his mind. He knew something had happened in the museum. He knew this because his wife--his murdered wife--had told him, but of course, she hadn't told him any thing at all. She is dead, after all.

Climbing into his car, lurching the Junker into first gear, he pulled away. Valentine's Day fell on a Sunday this year, and Hallmark holiday or not, that meant he had to go to work tomorrow. The current research project his lab was working on was hefty in its potential for discovery. Bill being at the head of the project committee meant more work for him. Earlier, before leaving, he had released a melodramatic sigh when seeing the thick stack of material on his desk. Now the thickness was inviting--anything to take his mind away from mushrooms and Mother's Day.

At this point, however, it felt as if his mind was a mushroom, a Morel mushroom.

Now sitting before his desk with the stack of papers to his left, Bill took a sip from the glass on his right. With hesitation, he plucked the first file from the pile. Work in a theoretical physicist lab is not something most understand, he had come to find, and he had come to discover such things because neither him nor his research colleagues understood the work they were performing half of the time. Theoretical physics research does not end at the walls of the lab, but at the end of the universe. In this sense, the work was endless, timeless.

Opening the file he read first of the notion of alternate universes. Universes that were perhaps parallel to the one he sat in sipping his scotch. It was ignorant to think that this universe was the only one; the Big Bang is named such for a reason, and black holes, whatever their function, were present as a result. Past research had given Bill and his colleagues the theoretical proof that black holes can link to others, forming what are referred to as wormholes through the intergalactic wall. On the other side lie the parallel universes.

Bill sipped his drink. He hated these dense reads, and the drink, while it helped him in theory, was probably only hindering him. Nonetheless, he continued--any thing to keep his mind from the museum, from Tonya... from his wife.

The residual kinetic force from the galactic content push makes black holes denser than dense. No physical matter is able to make it through. However, scientists have thought that subjective matter--consciousness was their given example, as consciousness is what makes what they are referring to possible in the first place--could make it through and break the walls of space.

Maybe ghosts are simply beings that followed the worm. Bill laughed at his own thought; the drink as usual heightened his sense of humor. Still laughing he reached for the next file. This file, their current project, read: Cosmic Consciousness. They sought to expand on previous scientific stipulations, sending consciousness in and through the cosmos. Bill, glass in hand, was about to read on, when he felt a psychic twitch pluck at his head. He dropped his glass. The sound of the shatter on the tile floor reverberated throughout the small room. Suddenly Bill didn't feel like himself. The ambiance of the room had shifted. It smelt thick of moist foliage with the slight perception of ultraviolet light.

But the room was still the same. Grief--its prickling tingle--ripped through his veins. The blood of his dead wife stuck to his hands. He felt the puncture of his wife's murderer throb into his muscles. Oh, how he missed his dead wife.

Maybe I'll call Tonya, Bill thought, and he did, in that precise moment.

The wet smell of mushrooms crept into his nostrils as the phone rang.

"You know, art is a capturing of the real world, and the real world is a capturing of art, Bill," Tonya said.

But what is real? This universe, or the alternate? With art, they are one. With the Morels--the brain--they become alive.

THE END

Bio: Mr. Retzer is a Science Fiction/ Horror writer who tries to incorporate a psychological element into his stories.

E-mail: Michael Retzer

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