Paradise Lost

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It is the year 3245 anno domini.

In the generator-cathedral at the heart of the world-wall the Wiggles dance. It is not for love and it is not for power that they dance. It is the working of the music bug that in its endless compassion for humanity drives them onwards.

They wiggle there and as they wiggle the lightning gathers at the cathedral’s peak.

The tree of worlds that had been sagging draws in that power. Its leaves firm up. Its flowers bloom.

An apple—

A shining apple of immortality—


From there the process is automatic. The apple is plucked by the dinosaurs, the green and spotted dinosaurs, that are always running on the world tree’s branches.

They harvest it with their cunning hands and place it in the vats.

One apple: that’s all!

One apple feeds ten thousand tons of yeast and mold.

Ten thousand tons of immortal yeast and mold, diluted homeopathically, become one trillion tons of the elixir of life, to sustain the endless people of the world.

In their generator-cathedral at the heart of light and goodness the Wiggles dance.

They can scarcely help it.

To wiggle is to be.

Yet there is one who has left them.

He was drawn from them by the tales of the shadow cathedral on the other side of the world: the generator-cathedral of the Dvergar and their dviggling.

Down he went through the hidden paths in his green green shirt.

Past the spine-covered ancient horror Gwel, which hath never been defeated by any hero yet succumbs to his wiggling;

Past the three-headed hound, that beast of barking, which he does not fear because its felt mouth has no teeth;

Finally to the door between the two halves of the world, which said, “I can’t possibly let you through.”

“Why not?” asked the Wiggle.

“If I let you go,” the door said, “you won’t be a Wiggle any more.”

“But I have to go,” he said. “I’m going to investigate the Dvergar.”

The door thought about this.

“Well,” it said. “Perhaps if you said the magic word?”

And so the Wiggle spake that word of ten thousand syllables that had spawned the birthing of the world; and fire danced upon the flanges of the Earth and storms rumbled in the Heavens and all across the world were miracles that caused people to exclaim, “Ah! Ah! A Wiggle has said the magic word! Truly this is an age of wonders!”

But the door said, “No.”

The Wiggle thought.



Suddenly he understood. “Please!”

And so he passed through the door and down into the depths and there in the generator-cathedral of the Dvergar he saw the dviggling and the terrible power of it.

He stood for a while in thought.

Then he ascended, once again, into the light.

There are three Wiggles. They dance in the generator-cathedral. They make the lightning that spawns the apples that keep alive the endless Golden Age.

The fourth of them stands outside, his shirt stained blue by the things he has seen and the sinister dviggling wiggling in his brain.

“I want to dance,” he says.

He does dance.

But he cannot wiggle.

You cannot wiggle once you have seen the dviggling of the Dvergar in their cathedral at the bottom of the world.

Once you have seen the dviggling Dvergar you can never wiggle again.

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