Carver's Brains

Chapter One

Pillars. There was a series of them. Carver estimated that there was roughly thirty in total, thirty feet high, lined up in three rows, each maybe thirty feet apart from it’s immediate neighbour. Individually they stood tall and proud. Marble edifices standing juxtaposed with the serenity of the beautifully barren expanse of water that was bluer than the heavens it swelled under. The pillars had no physical right to be where they were. Each ornately carved erection stood on the water that surrounded it, defying all kinds of physics that Carver understood all too well. Further out, a levee of chalcedony quartz surrounded the imposing sky-chasing structures. Carver lay on his back in the break at the tide of the waters, feeling that same agate attempting to impress upon his spine. His legs eddied effortlessly as his equilibrium defiantly refused to become lost in this place where time meant nothing and being was all that mattered.

Carver woozily realised he was naked, but wasn’t unduly concerned by the fact. There was no one here but him. He would have been surprised if it had been any other way. He was here because he chose to be. At least part of him had decided to be here. The part of him he respected had made this decision. He wished the rest of his psyche displayed the same kind of intelligence. He wished that the decisions he made every day were as considered and inspired as the choice for his current location. Carver wondered if this was Bliss. He guessed it might be.

Edward Carver, or Ed to people he knew, flittered gingerly on the potentially jagged edge of lucidity. When he realised when and where he was, this effectively ended it for him. Bliss began to fade. The pillars, standing in defiance of gravity only a moment before, succumbed to the water they implacably gloried above, descending beneath the rippling surface. When the pillars had gone, Carver realised the onyx levee had also given up it’s borders and perished as the onset of reality began to become uppermost in his mind. It was not violent. There was no maelstrom of pounding and crashing as the enveloping water turned to cotton laced downy plumage.

Carver wanted to remember this. As quickly as the water evaporated and the duvet announced his arrival somewhere entirely different, he held the memory of Bliss inside of his head, willing the experience to remain lodged somewhere he could readily get access to later. The psychology behind this was that if he could remember it, he could come back again. And he so wanted to return. This theory was largely based on guesswork. And as if he needed proof that his own inadequacies in the field of metaphysics were sadly lacking, he was about to be given an answer to this particular quandary. It came in the form of a practical demonstration. And although Carver didn’t know it yet, it was already going on around him.

When Carver opened his eyes, content that the memory of Bliss was safe and secure, he began to realise he wasn’t where he expected to wake up. He was as certain as night follows day that he went to sleep in his bed. He wasn’t waking up in it, however. The bed he lay in was not solely occupied. He considered the quality of the mattress he lay on as there appeared to be a dip in the middle of it and the other occupant, whilst lying on their side with their back to him, was closer than he felt comfortable about. Carver was becoming more awake than he had been for some time and he could almost smell the adrenaline starting to coarse through his veins. His mysterious bed-partner was only visible from the head up. The back of the head at that. The hair he could see was long, ashen and despite the fact it had been lying in bed for who knew how long, seemed elegantly cut. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Carver lifted the duvet under which they both lay, to get a better view of his new friend.

Sure enough, it was a woman. Of this much he was homophobically relieved. What concerned him slightly less though still worryingly so, was that the woman next to him was naked, save for a pair of black patent leather stilettos. One of which became apparent as she rolled over to face him, throwing one leg out of the duvet, presumably to get some air. As she still slept and tumbled in potentially a Bliss of her own making, he got a full view of her face for the first time since he became conscious. It was Verity. It was his wife. As soon as recognition finally took place, Verity opened her eyes and looked directly at him, as if she’d been pretending to sleep all along, but really never was.

When she opened her eyes, smiling with a warmth reserved for an intimate and trusted member of her own family, he realised something wasn’t right. He knew he could have been mistaken about where he went to bed as he had no recollection of the previous nights’ events. A quick juggle through his brain had confirmed there was no memory of it. What he couldn’t deny was that Verity’s hair was easily long enough for her to plait or bun or ponytail it.

Last week, she’d opted for a new pageboy cut. One that he’d loved. It had been that way when they’d first met. Now, her locks had returned.