Author: Hillary Lyon

With a well-worn key in hand, Bonnie unlocked the massive front door of her great-uncle Duran’s house. The place sat unoccupied since his passing; it had taken forever for his will to slog through probate. She’d been his favorite family member, and he, hers. His death made her face her own mortality; it chilled her soul, made her feel untethered. Lost at sea.

Bonnie walked through each room, pulling dusty sheets off the furnishings. The last room she visited was his study; there she found chaotic piles of books and papers overflowing his old desk, spilling onto the floor. The man had been a surrealist poet, always reading and writing.

In the corner behind that desk, sat one last thing to be uncovered. It was boxy, and about three feet tall. An old fashioned safe, perhaps? Maybe it was stuffed with cash or jewels or bearer bonds. Bonnie laughed at herself; she’d seen too many movies.

Bonnie pulled off the sheet. Before her stood what looked like a small metal file cabinet with grids of lights instead of drawers. It looked homemade, with rough welded seams and mismatched metal panels on the sides. On top, there was a slot for unknown purposes, and an embedded, grimy key-board.

At the back, she found a frayed, old-fashioned fabric-covered electrical cord. Bonnie plugged it in, half expecting to get a nasty shock when she did. The device hummed and blinked its variously colored lights. Wondering what would happen, Bonnie typed “Hello” on the key board. Immediately, the device shook violently and coughed up a sheet of paper through its top slot.

*Always Returning*

I’ll see you when next
the fractals bloom
purple green yellow red
in the doorway
of my dusty house

—- end —-

Bonnie sat down in the creaky desk chair. What if his true talent was not writing poems, but constructing a stream-of-consciousness, surreal poetry generator? A machine that reflected—maybe even channeled—his personality. Only the device wasn’t conscious. Right?

What if he chose to lose himself in his surreal imaginings? If Uncle Duran programmed this device to mimic his creative process, then after his passing, using it would be like talking with him.

Bonnie smiled and typed on the grungy keyboard: “Hello, Uncle Duran. Miss you. Love, Bonnie.” To which the machine again shivered and spat out paper.

*Ahoy Family*

cold and tumultuous
the world outside
sea-sick sea green seen it all
to the sixth plane of being
I invite you

—- end —-

Bonnie placed her hand on the poetry generator. Unlike the world outside, it was warm, and welcoming.