audio file 2: 09/01/67
Extent: 2 Of 52 Audio Files (.Mp3)
Archivist: Residual
Language Of Material: English
Dates: 2021-2022

As I Listen To Encarta’s Tapes, I Start To Notice A Pattern. The Anxious Dreams Of Water Haunted The Last Generation’s Waking Senses. That Liquid Obsession, Bleeding Through, Filling Every Moment That Felt Empty.

I Was A Child The Last Time I Was Underwater. I Remember How The Edges Of The Water Formed In Rings On The Surface Over My Flesh. Opening And Closing As I Rose And Fell Back Down Again. That Was In An Area Called X, Where My Mother Worked Cleaning Houses In Protected Neighborhoods.

From What I’ve Gathered On The Radio Waves, They Say There’s Still Water There. I Am Not Sure What To Believe, But I Am Not Too Keen On Promises These Days. Yet The Whispers Over The Radio Waves Assure Me More Than The Olive Oil Programs.

I Hate To Be Pessimistic When Everything Around Me Is So Grim, But No Good Comes From Their Temples. It’s All Propaganda, And The Believers Try To Convince Us The Oil Is As Good As Water, If Not Better. They Try To Drink It As If It Were The Same, Bathe In It With Stupid Smiles On Their Faces.

They Do Not Know Their Goddess, The Virgin, Is A Swarm That Managed To Create A Home For Itself. Simply By Taking The Shape Of A Woman.

Funny How A Swarm Is As Liquid As The Oil They Push And The Water They Strive To Mimic. But It Is Indeed An Excellent Strategy For A Lost Swarm. A Goddess Demands Space, Authority, Poise. If One Gets Too Close, The Virgin Kills Without Hesitation, Before The Witness Can Reveal The Temple’s Secret.

Of Course, My Suspicions Towards The Olive Oil Goddess Are Simply That— My Suspicions. But I Believe I Have Convincing Evidence To Support My Theory. Something Encarta Said To Me Once— The Last Thing I Heard Him Say Before His Disappearance.

“I Saw The Virgin’s Face Disintegrate Before Me,” He Echoed Over The Airwaves. He Was Panting. I Could Hear The Hot Air Dry The Walls Of His Lungs As He Spoke. “Into A Multitude Of Terrible Creatures.”

He Didn’t Say Swarm. He Didn’t Have To, But Even In The Subtlety Of His Words, They Found Him. And Now I Am Certain They Are Coming For Me. They Scrape Their Metallic Bodies Along The Shutters, Hissing And Screaming And Beckoning Me Towards Them. It Is Not So Much When I Am Awake And Hear Them That Frightens Me, But When I Am Asleep And Have No Control Over Its Trance.

One Evening, I Awoke To The Sound Of The Shutter Doors Screeching. I Opened My Eyes, Only To Find A Shadow Flying Like A Kite Against The Glistening Moonlight Flickering Against The Black And Glittering Night. Twisting And Warping And Sharpening. Then It Stopped, Floating In Midair, With Nothing But A Hum Whistling Through The Hot Breeze.

It Was Looking At Me— The Virgin. It Knew I Knew, And Hurtled Towards Me. I Slammed The Rusting Shutters Before They Could Penetrate The Windows. I Cowered In A Corner All Night. And Ever Since, I Have Not Been Able To Leave My Home In Fear That The Swarm Will Exterminate Me, The Residues Of Its Secret.

And As I Watch The Moon’s Bleached Rays Crawl Up The Walls Each Night, A Horrible Truth Rots Inside Me. Something Encarta Mentioned In Correspondence. The Promise Of Water, Hidden In Coordinates.