Here's a bit of original (if something so obviously inspired by the works of Grant Morrison can be said to be 'original') fiction taken from a wider piece that I'm working on currently. If you think that this is self-indulgent waffle, then you'd probably be right. But, I hope it's high grade self-indulgent waffle and, consequently, at least transiently entertaining. (The Interloper is not Batman. Alright?)
We shift in from the Eleventh Cascade, reality congealing around us, forming its familiar crust of substance and feeling. The cold air that habitually swirls around the Plains of Gehenna gnaws at my lungs as I make myself breathe; I kick my foot against the sparsely grassed ground, wince a little at the sudden stabbing pain. But I am grateful for it. It’s easy to forget what the mundane feels like when you’re traversing the interstitial seas and your consciousness expands to transcend materiality, becomes the sieve through which the conceptual tides of the Nether-verse are strained. It’s easy to lose your sense of self, of perspective, of purpose.
I blink away a sudden flurry of after-images, a stochastic waterfall of improbable visions of fairies, gods and anti-geometric configurations, runoff from the dousing my imagination has been subjected to during the shift. I make myself concentrate, gazing at the uneven horizon and working my way from there through the middle distance to the other four figures that have made the journey with me.
“Well, that was interesting.”
The Interloper is standing perfectly still. His trademark black leather overcoat reflects a petrol sheen of iridescent colours, but, even as I watch, they fade and his costume becomes dull once more, functional.
I half-smile. “What did you see, Zak?”
The Interloper shakes his head, the half-mask that obscures his eyes and protects his nose and cheekbones turning away from me. “You should know by now, kid. I’m never going to tell you.”
(To be continued?)