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  • Writer's pictureAntonio Monge

Mother Box

How do you describe the indescribable. Poorly I suppose...a question poets have probably been asking themselves for centuries. I am no poet, well, not with words at least, I’ve been called “A Poet of Peril” and “A Master of Escape”, not to brag or anything...

But this...cube, this cube I cannot escape, I cannot escape her warmth, her humble glow, the soothing hum she gives off. That steady pitter-patter of rain as it hits a car window on a soothing drive down a long road on a calm overcast morning. When I touch the box I can almost taste the condensation in the air, I can see my wifes smile, stern, yet so inviting. She barely glances at me, she never takes her eyes off the road, but I see the subtle curve of her lips, and I am home again.

I take my hand from the box, her warmth leaves me with a jolt but her somber hum persists. I give her some space, we both take some space, hovering, isolated in this suffocatingly empty vacuum. Her glow begins to pulse, the amber light emanating from her hollow core, shining through circular ports on all sides of her frame, as the light leaves her it almost flows like water.

Suddenly I’m not in the cold desolate nothingness, suddenly I’m at the pier, my feet dangling off the edge, a fruity drink cooling my hand, a droplet of water running down my finger as the ice inside melts from the blistering sun.

She’s sitting next to me, larger than life, a sunhat, twice the size of any sold by a sane man, shrouds her face, but I can tell she’s smiling. I can see it in her posture. She’s relaxed, something rare for Barda, something new, and she likes it. This was the first time I saw that in her, the first time I knew we’d be safe.

I take my hands from the box again, I don’t know when I took hold of her again but now she is cool to the touch, just like the drink I savored all those nights ago. I am back in the void. I am alone, and so is she. She hums her melancholy tune. It takes me nowhere this time.

Not to the rain-slicked roads of San Francisco, nor to the ocean breeze and humid skies of Santa Monica. No, it is a song of bitter acceptance. The Mother Box has tried to teleport us from this pit of despair for hours no...possibly days, time bleeds together when your only clock is the fleeting joy of memories.

I grab her again, this time my touch is not gentle, this time I am not seeking escape from my prison. I hold her to my temple, I feel the hum bounce through my skull, my whole body vibrates as I shut my eyes, contorting my face as I concentrate. Sweat drips down my brow, my bones ache, the vibration grows stronger as the hum grows louder but I hold my ground.

“Find me.”

I think, with all my strength, I have escaped X-Pits and death-traps, war-worlds and Apokolips, I can escape anything, yet I cannot for whatever reason escape this loneliness.

“Find me Barda. Please.”

The box sings a soft tune, as if for the first time in hours its managed to latch onto a single:


She found me...once again Mister Miracle narrowly escapes the jaws of death by just the skin of his teeth, all thanks to his astounding partner and protector: Big Barda!!

“Ping ping ping ping ping pi-”

And the crowd goes wild.

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