Excerpt: Flesh is Fleeting... Art is Forever!
(Or, Some Bullshit Will Continue Even After the Dead Wipe Us Out)

by Gary A. Braunbeck

Though each member of the orchestra was exquisitely dressed (the Symphony Committee insisted on new tuxedos and evening gowns for all players), their flesh--what remained of it—had the color and texture of spoiled meat; an unfortunate contrast to the otherwise tasteful pomp of their entrance. Worms and other such creatures of filth oozed in and out of the holes in their faces where once several of their eyes had resided. The stench of death was subtle, but still sickly-sweet in the air. I, for one, was at once grateful for the chilly temperatures in the theatre proper: the thought of how overpowering this smell of rot would be were the indoor climate any warmer caused my body to give forth a shiver that was in no way connected to the cold.

Most of the Resurrected musicians shambled, a few crawled, and one--a woman, Second Violin--had to be carried by another orchestra member because much of her lower torso was gone, leaving only dangling, tattered, seemingly (under the stage lighting) luminescent loops of decayed intestine which hung beneath her like a jellyfish's stingers. Even the exquisite silk of her designer evening gown could not mask this from the audience, and judging from the slight smile I saw cross Russell's face at that moment, I could not help but wonder if this were a deliberate effect on his part. After all, what better way to remind the masses of the "world unmade" than to allow them an unobstructed view of the "unmade" Resurrected?

Sheer genius already, and the performance not even begun.

It was not until all orchestra members were in place and Russell took his place before them that I noticed--as did many of my fellow symphony attendees--that nowhere on the stage were there any music stands, let alone sheet music from which the musicians could read.

Could it be? Dare I hope? Was it possible that Russell had so deeply tapped into the Artistic spirit that his orchestra knew their parts (excuse the expression) by heart? Had his music touched something so aesthetically primal in their Resurrected cores that it became a part of them, and so rendered any sheet music superfluous? Good Lord, what a triumph of Artistic achievement this would be were that the case. (I know as well as any of you that the Resurrected have limited memory capacity--most can be trained to do only a single task, and the more repetitive that task, the better, but a symphony required that a cellist or pianist or flautist do more than simply play a single note over and over, it required a concentration akin to that of the most intensive chess match. Had Russell somehow discovered through Art that there are ways to train the Resurrected to perform infinitely more complex tasks than those we have thus far assigned them? Were that the case, then this would be a significant and historic performance, and we in the audience could one day soon say that we were there on the night when the paradigm of society began its most important evolution. And all thanks to Art.)

Breathless in my anticipation, I remained still, every nerve in my body tingling with excitement and trepidation.

And oh, how I was rewarded . . .

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Flesh is Fleeting... Art is Forever! © copyright 2008 Gary A. Braunbeck.