In this Issue:
I. Blank Dawn
At first, it looked like fog.
Not the kind that veils, but the kind that erases. The morning light hit the city's glass towers and found nothing to read—no names, no ads, no warnings. Every sign, from the cathedral marquee to the corner deli's neon promise of OPEN 24 HOURS, had gone white. Even the traffic lights blinked without words, green and red stripped of their captions like naked commandments.
People stood beneath the blank billboards, mouths half-open, waiting for meaning to return. Read more...
(on the Jacquet-Droz automata)
All Henri's father ever said was,
, -
, ...
which wasn't so unusual, because they could not speak his language at table. And this wasn't so unusual, because he only saw his father at table. They would sit at opposite ends, his father and he, of a table of quite some length, of sturdy mahogany, into whose polished depths Henri could gaze when the air grew silent. Which it often did. Read more...
House of Brightness
I live in a house that is so bright I have to wear shades to see or close my eyes tightly and feel my way from room to room. Without shades, the brightness stings my eyes, which are always bloodshot. With shades on, my eyes still strain to see, and the rooms fill with an orangish gold light as if filtered through fall foliage. Now, no one else lives here but me. No one else could stand the constant brightness. Those who have tried turned to shadows. I can still hear their voices fading into soundlessness. At night, I open the blinds to let the darkness in, but there is never enough. Read more...
On that warm stretch of sandy earth between the grass and the lake, I sat in my portable beach chair. An itch came over me to get up and do something. I got up and waded into the water, looking down. A school of minnows swam with grace and speed. It was my first day at the lakeside resort.
Another face behind me, reflected in the water. He bent his neck to see what I saw, the fish and the clams. He wore an executioner's hood, a black cowl that showed almost nothing of his face, with just those two holes cut out for his eyes. I stepped to the side and turned. Read more...
Prison
My captors are really very ordinary people. They are, just like me, sitting on a bench and looking into the distance toward the setting sun. Maybe it is a family, as the one sitting nearest me is still a kid. I would in no way say that they are dangerous terrorists whom I should fear. But then, after I realize that we don’t belong together, I take a couple of steps away and look in the opposite direction. Maybe because I don’t want to be one of them? Or because I want to protect my sense of freedom? It is an absolutely unique prison. A high, rocky plateau, not very expansive, that can be crossed in a few steps and with walls that are too sheer to climb. Read more...
About Our Coffee and Other Fare
Please Note: All of the coffee served at The Irreal Cafe is fair trade, organic, shade-grown and not real. All of the food served at The Irreal Cafe is organic, vegan, locally sourced and not real. See "At Our Cafe" for more about what we would serve at The Irreal Cafe and how we would serve it if there were an Irreal Cafe.