Author: Colin Jeffrey

Andre Grack wasn’t happy with his latest purchase.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the colour or its size, though those attributes were rather nebulous and indescribable, he now realised. And it wasn’t that it was ugly, emitted unpleasant smells, or leaked something nasty onto the floor. Though, again, these aspects defied meaningful description under observation.

It was just that the thing wouldn’t stop talking.

He had first noticed the object in one of those small, faux-avant-garde pop-up shops in his local mall. Though “noticed” was probably a stretch – it was more, “barely discerned.”

And yet he still managed to buy it and have it delivered.

When the object arrived, he was surprised that the package containing it belied its true mass. The parcel had been barely bigger than a paperback, but Andre struggled to pick it up.

After dragging it into the house and eventually hoisting it onto the kitchen table, he removed the wrapping. Before him lay an object that was not quite perceivable – as if you were trying to observe it just out of view in the corner of your eye.

Yet, it was there.

He also had no idea it made any sound.

He found that out the first night.

“People are like flowers. They die when you eat them,” the entity announced at 3:37 a.m., apropos of nothing.

Andre was woken by the sound, though he had only just fallen back asleep from the previous announcement at 2:57 that startled him upright: “You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?”

After being disturbed again by, “I drive way too fast to worry about cholesterol” 23 minutes later, and then, “You put the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional,” six minutes after that, he lay awake, beginning to rue his acquisition.

By morning, sleep-deprived, brain overloaded with fifty-seven one-liners, and more than a little unhappy, Andre vowed to return it.

Just as he began searching online for the latest location of the pop-up shop, there was a knock at his door.

He opened it to find a Buddhist monk.

The man wore a maroon robe, his head freshly shaved, eyes calm and beaming gentle kindness.

“Mr. Grack,” he said with a soft bow, “I believe you have something that does not belong to you.”

Andre blinked. “The… object?”

The monk nodded soberly.

Andre stepped aside without a word and pointed to the object on the table. It was silent now.

The monk bowed to it, whispering in a language that sounded more like a breeze rustling leaves than any earthly tongue.

He turned to Andre. “It chooses its bearer. But this is not your time.”

Andre exhaled. “So… what is it?”

The monk hesitated. “A fragment of something very ancient, very important. A unique part of the universe, full of power and mystery.”

Andre frowned. “It’s been quoting jokes and novelty t-shirt slogans at me all night.”

The monk tilted his head, regarding him quizzically. “I have not heard of such a manifestation,” he said. “Though I would say to you… if you understand, things are just as they are. If you do not understand, things are just as they are.”

He carefully lifted the object and turned to go.

“Wait… what if I want it back?”

The monk paused. “You may receive it again. Perhaps in another life. When you are ready.”

And then he left.

The silence in the house was serene. Andre stood in the quiet for several minutes.

Then, from the other end of the kitchen… the toaster spoke.

“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable…like a coma?”