He opened his fingers slightly, letting rice slip between the cracks, falling lightly down upon the glittering surface of the mirror. They scattered, spinning, forming random whorls and spirals. Squatting, he bent closer to the surface, letting the light dazzle his eyes. He closed his eyes, watching the afterimage on his retina, comparing the random spray to his mental image of the night sky.
"What are you doing?"
Paul leaned against the door frame, looking on with curiosity and amusement at his friend, who was sitting on the floor of the back room, a mirror flat on the ground in front of him, covered with rice. It was a scorchingly hot morning, even in the cooler rooms of the house. Despite this, Trent sat there, in the sun's full glare, eyes closed, a look of deep concentration on his face.
Trent didn't open his eyes, but answered, "Divining for constellations."
"Ah."
"It's a new technique, I started doing it two weeks ago." He finally opened his eyes, giving Paul a steady look, speaking seriously, "The rice forms patterns, some of which correlate, if you look closely, with the stars. I believe sometimes the patterns here show me the stars as they would appear in the day's sky, if we could find a way to view them."
Paul nodded, disinterested, "Want a beer?" He took a sip from his own, then wiped the cool sweating bottle across his forehead. "Damned hot in here... you should open some windows."
"No thanks. There are many cultures, most notably certain Native American tribes, which feel heat is conducive to meditation. Quite understandable, really. The stresses of extreme temperatures can create altered states of consciousness."
"Well, if you change your mind, I've got a twelver in the fridge, all cold. I'm going over to Carrie's, so pick up the phone if it rings. I'm expecting to hear from my folks today. Tell them I'll be back around nine."
Trent nodded, distracted, then stooped back down to let the reflected sunlight splash across his face. He sprayed some more rice across the surface, and closed his eyes once more.
Daylight was frustrating, washing across the earth in terrible intrusiveness. The nearby sun, gaseous furnace, fusion reactor, sprayed its energy across the universe, speeding as proto-waveform particles, vibrating through reality. Even as old as the sun was, light existed from its birth, somewhere in the universe, distance equaling time. Somewhere, perhaps galaxies distant, someone could see that light for the first time, focus their alien instruments upon it, and watch the beginning of a new world.
Closer to home, the light was a pervasive annoyance. Most people believed the sun to be an illuminator, useful for the clarity it opened on the world. Yet those intense rays of energy entered the atmosphere, bounced from the oceans, and scattered across the sky in a reverberating blue illusion. This created a ceiling which shouldn't exist, a lofty blue vault as solid, to the eye, as a concrete dome painted a faded azure.
Trent found it ridiculous how most people thought they could see clearly in the day. It was only at night that the sky opened to the larger universe, and sight was possible. Trent became most impatient at those hours just after the sun passed below the lip of the horizon. He would stare upward, watching the blue vault tremble and quiver, turning to deeper blue, then purple. Through the steadily thinning veil of reflected illusion, tiny pricks of light appeared, which multiplied like rice scattered on a mirror. The stars could grow in number endlessly, if you had the right telescope, or the conditions ideal. Light pollution, clouds, and even the blasted moon itself all interfered, making observation difficult. But daylight was infinitely worse. Nothing could be done in the day at all.
Sighing, Trent scraped the mirror clean, and began from scratch, spreading stars with the wave of his hand.
It was coolest in the kitchen, since it faced on the west side of the house. Thanks to some abundant ivy, and the proximity of the neighbors, direct sunlight could penetrate the kitchen window in only a small sliver of the day. Besides, that was where the beer was, so Paul gravitated toward it.
David and Shelley, the house's only resident couple, were seated at the kitchen table, taking refuge there. David was a tall stick of a person, but seemed the most discomfited by the summer's heat. His shirt was stuck to his back, and his hair disheveled and somewhat stringy from sweat. He was drinking a tall glass of ice-water. His hand was fastened to the glass, which was now on the table, his arm slumped, as if anchored to the cool cylinder lest it slide off and onto the floor.
In contrast, Shelley was bright-eyed and energetic. Wearing shorts and her bathing-suit top, she'd been involved trying to convince David to go with her to the beach. She was one of those slightly mad individuals who enjoyed nothing better than blistering heat.
They looked up as Paul came into the room, and watched him walk purposefully to the fridge, open it, take another beer, and pop the top. He drank the first half of it in a single mammoth glug. David inquired of him, "Aren't you leaving for Carrie's?" Paul nodded, still drinking. David turned to Shelley, shaking his head, "I've never found beer very refreshing."
She ignored him, lost in thought. "Paul, how's Trent?"
Forced to stop guzzling long enough to respond, Paul answered, "He's all right. Goofing around with that rice and mirror, talking about stars as usual. Seemed okay, though." Glancing at his watch, he cursed under his breath, "Hey, I'd better go... I'll take this one for the road. Help yourself to the rest. See you guys later."
Shelley waved, then turned back to David, "He's been very odd recently."
"Paul? He's been drinking and driving as long as we've known him."
"No, Trent. He's been really peculiar."
"What are you talking about? He's always been odd. Spends all day sleeping, then goes up and looks through his telescope until the break of dawn."
"No, it's different now. What's this rice and mirror stuff he's been doing lately? I'm worried about him. He was eccentric before," (David scoffed at the euphemism, but Shelley continued without pause) "but now, he seems to have taken one more step around the bend. It's been like that ever since he lost his job..."
Coincidentally, Trent was just then thinking about the day that he lost his job.
The office manager, a particularly calm and rational man by the name of Oliver Hines, had asked him in for a meeting. Despite the fact that he ran a boring and unimportant branch of a large mortgage conglomerate, Oliver dressed impeccably. This day was no exception, and Trent remembered Oliver's perfectly groomed hair, his starched collar, and his smooth clean suit, without even a single speck of lint.
Oliver smiled, and began talking about a dream he'd had. Despite his calm and rational manner, Oliver had a fascination with dreams, something Trent could never understand.
"Last night, I had a very peculiar dream. Would you like to hear about it?" Without waiting for a reply, Oliver broke into his story proper, "I was seated here in this office, just like now, except it was nighttime. In the dream, this didn't seem odd, nor did the fact that my chair was actually a large sow with a blue ribbon around its neck." Trent raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, "I remember smelling smoke, so I got off of my pig-chair, and went into the office. There I saw you, standing on top of your desk, holding a basket filled with the company's money. And you were burning it. You kept taking large stacks of my money, and lighting it on fire."
Oliver steepled his fingers, and let his gaze settle on his employee. Trent, never knowing how to handle these little "confessions," cleared his throat, "Sir?"
Oliver smiled lazily, and waved his hand, "And so, I'm going to have to let you go..."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry, you've worked very well here, but a man must follow his subconscious signals. Dreams are allegorical. Full of symbols representing hidden emotional currents, unresolved dilemmas. This dream shows me that I must not really trust you. Perhaps there is a strong undercurrent of hostility between us. I think it would be best for both of us if you found employment elsewhere. You'll be given two weeks."
"You're firing me because of a dream you had?" Trent was too shocked to put any feeling into the question.
"That's right." Oliver reached forward to shake hands, "It's been great working with you, Trent, I'm sure you'll do well in any office environment. Good luck to you."
And that was it.
After making sure his backpack was firmly affixed, and all the flaps closed, Trent climbed up the ladder onto the roof. It was one of the highest buildings on campus, the only one which would work for his needs. Fortunately, one of the janitors was a class-mate and was easily convinced to open the locked door leading to the lower roof. Trent had explained that he wanted to do some sun-tanning. Aside from a raised eyebrow, Franklin, the janitor, hadn't been hard to convince. Now there was just this one ladder leading to the highest point on the building.
It was a stunning view from the top. The ocean spread to the south like a great glittering blue cloth unrolled to the horizon. To the north were the bumpy green-swathed hills. Off to the southwest, a translucent section of fog was obscuring the land, but it was retreating steadily, vaporizing under the sun. Other than this rapidly vanishing fog, it was a perfectly clear morning, and already starting to get hot as hell.
Trent opened the backpack, and carefully removed his towel and suntan oil. After spreading the towel, he began to disrobe. He stowed his clothing carefully away, then applied the oil liberally across his entire body, filling his nose with the smell of coconut.
Laying back on the towel, Trent closed his eyes and tried to fall into a suitable state of repose. This was more difficult than he had expected, with the sun already shining upon his eyelids, creating spots on his vision. It was similar to what he had experienced with the mirror, but more relentless. Time passed slowly, and the sun began to feel like a hand upon his body, a strong palpable presence, pushing down on him.
For a while, he wasn't sure if he could bear it, and he found himself becoming fidgety and uncomfortable. Soon, however, he became accustomed to the feeling, as the heat seeped into him like a drug. Without meaning to, he dozed off several times. Eventually, he stopped resisting, and drifted into deeper sleep.
It was a heavy dreamless sleep, which left him drained and tired when he awoke. His eyes were caked with dried tears, and he could feel the sun more directly overhead. His skin was baked and sore. He felt like a miniature sun himself, as if the radiation he had absorbed was now spurting outward from his flesh in palpable heat-waves.
Shifting onto his side, wiping the grime from his lashes, Trent opened his eyes, squinting against the uncompromising brightness. The entire landscape was faded and wan to his overexposed vision. He fumbled in the backpack, bringing out a small pile of incense and a bowl. He placed this near his left side, and lit the cubes, watching as the smoke rolled upward, filling the air with its pungent scent. He sat cross-legged over the bowl, and breathed its scent deeply, coughing at first, almost choking on the thick cloying smoke. His eyes began to water and sting, but he continued to breath as deeply and regularly as he could manage.
A small smile crossed his face as a thought occurred to him, and he took a single ten-dollar bill from his wallet. This was all he had left from his final paycheck, cashed last week and quickly spent on bills. He rolled it into a tube, and added it to the bowl. With shaking fingers, he struck a match, and lit the money, letting its smoke join the incense. All the while he pondered the meaning of allegory and dreams.
Light-headed, he reclined back onto the towel, closing his eyes once more. Like familiar friends, the spots danced on his eyelids, and he let his mind fall into calm. His skin was like an open-wound, burning and cooking under the merciless sun, no longer a hand pressed upon him, but a tightly clenched fist, slamming into every tortured cell on his exposed flesh. He focused upon this pain, upon the brightness above him, forcing his mind to concentrate beyond them. Time lost meaning, and Trent didn't know when he was awake, or when he slept. The world faded, and it seemed like cotton had been packed into his ears. There was only the heat of the sun, and the blinding brightness obscuring his vision, blocking him from the deeper void beyond. It was that brilliant curtain which he must rend, so true vision could be found.
Befuddled, dehydrated, and delirious, Trent smiled as the spots under his eyelids whirled into an intricate dance, leaving black streaks behind themselves. He laughed as everything suddenly became clear, like a tolling bell ringing in his skull. The shrouds of day were ripped aside like flimsy curtains, the world inverted, and his vision fell into the deep blackness of space. Thousands of stars stretched outward from him, each distinct and clearer than ever before. His vision stretched to infinity. The deeper he looked, the more stars he saw, and their patterns were beautiful and breathtaking. He could see the glowing gasses of forming galaxies, the shattered remnants of exploded stars, and an infinite ever-increasing flow of tiny pinpoints of light, each a sun more massive than a thousand Earth's. He felt himself stretch out to meet the edge of the universe.
Trent laughed and laughed until tears came streaking down his sun-burned cheeks, his eyes pressed tightly closed, his eyelids trembling.
David and Shelley were in the front hall, just returned from a day at the beach. Despite himself, David felt happy and relaxed, having enjoyed the ocean more than he had expected. It had certainly been a sweltering day, though, and now the house felt cool by comparison. "Hey, I'm going to go grab one of those beers Paul left us--" David was interrupted when the front door was flung open.
Trent leaned into the doorway, barely able to stand. He was visibly swaying, and his breath came in pants. There were little flecks of white to either side of his mouth. He was wearing only shorts and shoes, and his entire face, chest and legs were scarlet red. Multiple blisters could be seen along his cheeks, nose, chest, and shoulders. His backpack was gripped loosely in his right hand. Shelley yelled in surprise, rushing up to help him.
A dreamy slow smile cracked his dry lips, and he whispered, "I've seen them. I've seen the stars, all of them." With that, he stumbled into the house, and dropped his backpack onto the floor. He collapsed into Shelley's arms. She could feel the heat radiating from him where her hands touched his bare skin.