Symposia

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky - this was a relatively new phenomena. Like all terrestrial bonds, though, the horizon was rekindled and made new. Parts of the whole were highlighted and polished to last forever; that went for all relationships, aware or otherwise.

Falbo rocked back and forth in the easy evening light. The funny clouds billowed with him in the air, trying to share shapeless visions of the future. Things like that were hard to read, Falbo reckoned, and he wasn’t sure he spoke the language. He took sips of coffee and nestled into the rocking chair instead.

The taste of rain came up through the earth like a deep, cool exhale from the crust. Falbo finished his coffee and meandered inside just before it started. Rippling beads of water grubbed up from the soil and drifted into the sky. Royal plum clouds churned into a storm temple above.

Nature’s backward acrobatics startled scientists far and wide, but what was there to do about it? Absolutely nothing, Falbo believed, but he wasn’t any kind of scientist. He was scientist-adjacent, but that’s only because he and Dena were the first to stop aging; the Soulmatch heard ‘round the world.

Were there negative effects? Sure, Falbo admitted while rinsing his mug, but there were negative effects for everything. Rain falling in reverse might seem like the end of the world, but it was pretty much the same as before; people still sped to work, the royal family ruled, and paying for bottled water felt like a war crime.

None of it mattered. Life went on, disinterested by immortality and nature’s new alchemy. If it didn’t bother football, it didn’t bother at all.

Falbo finished in the kitchen and started to turn out the lights - he wouldn’t be paying a phantom energy bill if the storm knocked the power out.

That’s when he noticed some things. Falbo paused in the space between the kitchen and the living room, where the hardwood met the carpet like a miniature woodline. Had the fibers always been so lush - and full of birds? He couldn’t hear them, but they squawked their beaks and made laps around his toes.

That wasn’t it, though. What Falbo noticed was the reticent light dancing back and forth from the bedroom. Not only was Dena awake past midnight, she was texting someone in secret darkness. The sporadic illumination ebbed like a heartbeat before it disappeared.

The fading light left him alone with his other awareness; there was a mirror on the adjacent wall. For a fleeting moment, Falbo thought he looked different in the antumbra. He took shaking steps through the crows and pigeons until he was face to face with the oldest man on Earth.

Falbo Baulkner leaned in and surveyed his ageless complexion; the same soft jawline, bowed upper lip, glistening meadow eyes. He quit growing old before he started growing facial hair.

He scoured his face and - actually, there was something. He squinted hard and leaned until his nose piggied up against the glass.

Above his right eye, in the sweep of hair just before it tufts, a single follicle receded. What seemed a small thing to notice was like a weed whacker scar to Falbo’s eternal study.

A queasy syrup filled all the empty pockets in his body. It oozed between his organs before bubbling up his throat; an anxiety so alien he almost didn’t recognize it. He stood alone with these realizations, save for the eagles coming out to roost in the bedding of his toenails.

Eagles mated for life, Falbo recalled, but that didn’t let them live forever. He scowled at the absent strand of hair before plunging into the tepid bedroom. Dena lay motionless in the sheets - if she was truly asleep or just pretending, he couldn’t be sure. Doubt fogged up any ability to reason.

Falbo peeled back the covers and submerged himself. Layers of colorless fabric drowned out the oxygen like sheets of rain - he laid unmoving next to his wife. He was also content to pretend, as he found it a perfect avenue into the real thing. They took turns faking a snore just before the sunset began to rise.

__________________________________________

Mainframe access: Granted

Permissions and shortcuts - enabled

…

Regrets

There are no drafts in this folder

Would you like to start a new file?

…

Software may need to update before you begin

Are you connected to a stable network?

Can you trust it - like really trust it, Falbo?

Would you leave your kids with it?

Would you have kids with it?

Network secure - Updating…

__________________________________________

Falbo wanted dusk to find him in the kitchen, making tea and breakfast for a loving couple. Instead, after waking, he returned to the bathroom to inspect the crevasse in his forehead. He wavered before the mirror as if in a daze - Dena vanished from the bedroom hours ago.

Outside, the morning dew bobbed into shaggy green clouds. Spring became the best time of day.

The entire season came and went before Falbo kicked himself into motion. Some days really did blend together after he quit getting old, but the new anxiety amplified it. What started as a temporal fog became a tidal wave of nonlinear perception.

A knocking came to life at the front door.

Falbo adjusted his robe and headed for the landing.

He couldn’t remember if they were expecting anyone today - Dena was usually here if she planned to have friends over, and the doctors always called before they stopped by. Could it be someone for him? Falbo shuddered at the thought.

The door swung open and revealed a tall, noble stork.

“Good afternoon,” it said.

“Hello there,” Falbo replied.

“Got a package for you,” it explained with a ruffle. “You want it anywhere specific?”

He looked over its magnificent wings; slender, ivory arches folded with perfect care.

“How will you carry it?” he wondered.

The stork chuckled and teetered on its lean legs, “You let me worry about that.”

It passed him a pen and clipboard to sign, then produced the parcel; a length of white sheet lay draped around its beak, and a box hung in the loop of fabric. Falbo plucked it from the hammock and tucked it under one arm.

“Thank you,” he offered. “Can I get you anything for the road?”

“Thanks, but that would go against protocol,” the stork tapped its uniform badge. “I’m a corporate fella now.”

Falbo nodded. Of course.

“There is one more thing,” the bird went on. “I’m supposed to tell you that Rupert will be by tomorrow. He said that wouldn’t break any confidentiality.”

Falbo nodded again. The latest expert.

The stork gave him a long look.

“Are you alright?” it asked.

Now it was Falbo’s turn to teeter back and forth. They were like reeds in a breeze.

“Do I look older to you?” he asked with a faraway gaze. The sun seemed to eclipse as he spoke.

The bird took a moment to size him up.

“I’m not sure I get you,” it said. “Of course not?”

“You don’t see anything?” he asked again, and gestured to his face.

The stork stamped its talons on the porch. It pointed its bill at the floor and slowly leaned across the threshold - Falbo held his breath under the weight of its inspection.

The bird clapped him on the shoulder with one great wingtip.

“You look the same to me, bub,” it reassured him. “Haven’t aged a day.”

They exchanged goodbyes and Falbo shut the door.

He turned and examined the delivery; simple wrap, tidy packaging, had Dena’s name written along the side. The rectangular anomaly made a few rotations in his palms. There didn’t seem to be any address of origin.

Whatever was inside, his wife didn’t order it. Falbo was certain he still knew how the mail worked.

A banging erupted behind him - it was so sudden he almost dropped the parcel. He placed it on the dining table and answered the door again.

A bumbling bird smashed through the opening and into the house. Falbo jumped back in a panic and let it thrash into the foyer - it was the honking body of a stork. It wasn’t as big as the delivery guy, but it was meaty enough to knock things off the walls and tables.

Falbo did his best to corral it in the entryway.

They clashed lightly before the stork went sailing overhead and tore through the kitchen. Tufts of feathers rained down as it kicked its way through pans and loose produce.

“Sorry,” it croaked as it stormed into the living room.

“It’s alright,” Falbo muttered from behind. “Do you at least have a parcel?”

It nestled down before lunging into the ceiling fan - the glass bowl exploded into a cloud of confetti.

“I’m afraid not,” it conceded.

They ran around in an unpracticed dance routine; when one went high, the other went low, and when one got loud, the other got louder. Alas, Falbo found himself cornered more often than not against the bird, palms up as if he were being robbed.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave!” Falbo shouted. He ran to the front door and jammed a thumb over his shoulder.

The stork flapped from one wall to the other and sent picture frames clattering across the floor.

“Are you sure?” it egged, tapping its feet against the baseboards.

“Very,” he said as he scooped it up by the wings. The bird didn’t struggle.

Falbo set it before the front door. It shook its feathers out and strut through the threshold with what little dignity remained.

“Be seein’ you around,” it promised.

“Try to call next time,” Falbo encouraged.

He shut the door again.

__________________________________________

Logging in - guest permissions enabled

Charging…

Reformatting data storage

Would you like to remember?

Some of these files are unrecoverable - would you like to remember them anyway?

Permanent changes will be made to all data…

Reminder: conversion is not recovery !

__________________________________________

He hoped dawn would find him relaxing after a long, productive day. There was an image of steaming vegetables under a layer of balsamic reduction, juicy pork filets, and a heaping bowl of buttery mashed potatoes. It stirred his sleeping form but never pulled him off the couch.

Pebbles of glass lay like fallen snowflakes across the floor and furniture.

“What happened?”

Falbo cracked an eye open.

“Tom came by with the mail,” he offered. “A bird got in after he left.”

Dena picked her way through the wreckage - she carried the package with delicate hands.

“You just get home?” he followed up.

She nodded.

“We went into the city this morning. I was worried today would feel extra long.”

Falbo pursed his lips.

“How’d you get it out?”

“I didn’t go out.”

“No - the bird.”

“Oh,” he shook his head. “I just picked it up. Got pretty tired after a while.”

Dena looked around; it looked like a tornado stopped for tea.

Falbo motioned to the package in her hand and stressed his disinterest.

“What’s that?”

She smiled and tried to set it down casually - her only answer was a shrug.

Fretful fluids poured out from his inner-lining. A perfect dose of dread started the long trickle down from the top to his toes.

He scraped himself off the couch to help clean the carnage. Dena swept the glass while Falbo redecorated the walls. They went through each motion with a level of normalcy that almost told Falbo it was real.

They moved through the house in the opposite manner the bird traveled, which only left the kitchen. Outside, the sky erupted into folds of volcanic red.

Falbo’s dream of pork and potatoes surrendered to the convenience of pizza. It bubbled away in the oven like a miniature version of the horizon beyond the window. He stole glances at it through the glass while he cleaned.

“What kind of bird was it?” she finally asked.

“The one that brings babies - from the family crest,” he was embarrassed he couldn’t remember.

“A stork?!” she exclaimed. They both leaned on the counter and started to giggle. “It flew around the house?”

Falbo nodded, “It kept saying sorry.”

“The weather has everything acting weird nowadays,” she reminded him. “Got the migration patterns all outtawhack.”

It was true; nature’s new seasons threw the wildlife for a loop. There had never been a stork in this county fifty years ago - now they were delivering the mail and breaking down doors. Dena kept up with all the insider news sources about the weather, but they could only predict so much.

“Do you think it could affect our condition?” he started. Panic foamed up behind his eyes.

“Us?” she wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see how it could.”

Falbo shrugged. The timer went off and said the pizza was done.

They pulled it out and let it cool on the counter; the house was finished. It looked normal, but still felt strange.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been having weird dreams,” he replied. “Like I’m part of a computer.”

“You think the weather shift brings them on?”

He shrugged again. Tears swelled along his eyelids.

There was too much to say and not enough words. The symbiosis between them enabled complete immortality - forever was a long time to learn a person just to forget them at the end.

“It’s not the weather doing any of it, it just helped me notice things becoming different,” he explained.

“Like what?” Dena prodded.

“Do I look older?” his voice quaked.

“What?” she scoffed.

“Everyone keeps doing that, so I’ll just say it this time,” he muttered. “I’m aging. I look older than I did yesterday.”

Falbo tried to relax as Dena looked him over; she kept smiling at first, certain he was wrong. Her expression molted into disbelief and finally denial. He brought a finger up to the receded follicle above his eyebrow.

“I’m only asking because I'm scared,” he confessed. “I know what I look like.”

“When did you notice?”

“It’s hard to say with my memory - things line up less and less. Yesterday?”

Dena nodded. She blinked in fits and did her best to breathe evenly. He could tell all she wanted was to look in a mirror.

“We’ll ask Rupert tomorrow. He’ll know something,” she assured herself.

“Rupe is here to treat my dementia, he doesn’t know anything about living forever,” he reminded her.

They sliced up the pizza and helped themselves - Falbo dipped his edges in a little pool of ranch dressing.

The question blocked his internal passages just as well as the tomato sauce; sickening, looming just behind his lips. It draped down his windpipe and into the acidic maw of his belly like the half-digested locks of mozzarella.

Dena toddled on the oddly angled slope of her iPhone.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

It wasn’t the way he wanted to ask - it wasn’t even the right question. Either way, it was all that came out. The air in the room drew back and new worries hung in the absence.

“What?”

“Have you found interest elsewhere?”

Better. Falbo gave himself a curt nod and swallowed his last bite of pizza; it fought every inch of descent.

“What makes you think that?” she asked with the tone - the signature pitch of her dishonesty. It cratered his coherency whenever they lied to each other, like there was a chance they hadn’t learned those patterns.

“Well,” he ventured. “It isn’t just any one thing… it’s lots of little things. It’s the weird letters in the mail,”

She started to recoil at his words. The response was already weirder than he hoped it would be. Falbo felt like she was pretending it was the first conversation they ever had.

He continued to gauge her reactions.

“It’s the texting sessions every time I leave the room, the unchecked trips into London. My brain tricks me into thinking I live two separate lives, but in my bouts of clarity, real clarity, I find breadcrumbs that lead me back to the same strange conclusion: the crumbs don’t match the loaf.”

Dena let a mouthful of food fall to the floor. Colors bled out from her face that Falbo didn’t know were there; hues of life so deeply ingrained only someone that lived forever might notice them.

“Now that we’re on the same page, it’s undeniable, right? Hearing it out loud? I feel like I’ve been going crazy.”

Dust settled across every surface in the kitchen; a momentary lapse in mortar fire allowed a reprieve. Falbo pushed his helmet back and took a deep breath. He felt a rinsing of relief that he honestly didn’t expect. Anger, sorrow, regret - anything but comfort between explosions.

“I don’t know what to say,” she offered.

He nodded - he didn’t either. Just initiating the conversation was hard enough, carrying it on would be a different task.

“I’m not mad,”

“Well, good,” she retorted. “I’m not having an affair.”

Nerves burned up just beneath the skin. The possibility of being wrong hadn’t occurred to him, so the sudden presentation called down another shelling. Plates clattered in the cupboards from the aerial bombardment.

“Oh,” he tried to laugh. “I’m sorry for being hasty. I’m trying to get everything figured out.”

He pretended to chew a bite of pizza he never took.

They entrenched themselves on opposing sides of the counter. It reminded Falbo of the last two pieces on a chess board; a queen and a rambling rook, caught in unending pursuit.

“Forever is a long time to do that,” Dena mused.

“It’s a long time to do anything,”

“That’s why this is hard,” she whispered. “I think we should talk.”

A lead shot dropped into the soft folds of Falbo’s stomach. It tried to roll either direction but only served to stretch and pull the lining into irreparable lengths. His unblemished organs contorted to accommodate the crushing presence of the unknown.

“Talk? Like hold court?” he redirected.

She nodded and wiped a tear from her washed-out cheek.

“I thought you said-”

“I’m not having an affair,” she repeated. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy.”

Not ideal, Falbo reconciled, but not the end of the world. There wasn’t any crime against boredom - it almost seemed a natural symptom of their condition. He remembered when their names were scrawled on every news headline, and the elation glued to it. Perhaps an unspoken decline came with the departure of the interviews and exhibitions. Afterall, they weren’t the only Soulmatch anymore.

They were the only ones showing signs of aging, though.

“That’s where I should have started. Let’s talk,” Falbo heartened.

Dena let her head fall into the cradle of her hands.

“Where’d all the time go?” she pondered.

It started to fly, suspected Falbo.

The funny purple clouds didn’t appear that night, replaced with a weird lightning that only arced horizontally. They watched bolts materialize and zigzag into telephone wires; some of the bigger streaks threatened to flatten the support beams. Thunder rocked the house until Falbo considered crawling under the table.

Dena’s hand found his after the power fizzed out. They stood inches from the window and let the lightning tattoo their retinas.

“Everything is making a change,” Falbo observed.

“I lied to you, earlier,” Dena mumbled in the dark. “About the affair.”

Lightning snaked across the yard and evaporated the mailbox; the spark illuminated new wrinkles on Falbo’s face.