Mayfly
Michael “Mike” Talent became interested in botany as a freshman in college, specifically the study of plants and fungi that produce hallucinogenic compounds. He probably would have never considered the topic if it weren’t for Henrietta Lunsford, a peer tutor he hired to help him make it through Introduction to Entomology — a course he had been forced to take in lieu of a class he had planned to take but failed to register for.
Henrietta was a gifted teacher, skilled at unraveling complex biological processes and making them easy for students to grasp. This talent earned her the nickname “Cheat Code.” She looked the part, always in frumpy cardigans and faux tortoiseshell glasses that magnified her eyes comically. Her auburn hair was short, and she seldom wore jewelry.
The somewhat mousy tutor wasn’t wholly unattractive, however, especially to the rare male impressed by wit and intellect. Mike Talent was not of the rare variety. He liked Henrietta mainly because she was helping him weather a painfully boring class.
Henrietta, conversely, was rather fond of Mike. It was a fondness that bordered on impropriety and one she worked hard to conceal. For her, playing the role of an asexual academic was nigh intolerable. She regularly chastised herself for having “unprofessional” thoughts about Mike, but could not bring herself to terminate her contract with him.
After a particularly long tutoring session exploring the feeding habits and life stages of the order Ephemeroptera, Mike invited Henrietta to his dormitory’s commons area for dinner. She accepted, secretly hoping that her favorite student had developed unprofessional feelings for her. Dinner, it turned out, consisted of a microwaved Red Baron stuffed-crust pizza and three cans of diet Dr. Pepper.
It soon became disappointingly apparent to Henrietta Lunsford that Mike Talent saw her in a platonic light. The realization was a disappointment, but the dinner “date” was still better than what she had planned for the evening — laundry, a repast of stale Pop-Tarts, and hours of aimless video streaming. Seemingly out of the blue, Mike asked, “Tell me, Cheat Code, what is the thing that interests you most about studying insects?”
Henrietta Lunsford put down a half-eaten slice of pizza, surprised and gratified that Mike was showing interest in her.
“Insect life cycles fascinate me the most. The egg-to-juvenile-to-adult progression is, to put it mildly, mind-boggling! Some insects, like the mayflies we went over, spend years as juveniles, but die in a matter of days after achieving their adult form. The adults live only to mate! That’s crazy!”
“Really? I have to admit, that is interesting!”
“What do you find interesting, Mike?” Henrietta slipped off her glasses, playfully mouthed a temple tip, raised an eyebrow as high as the frontalis muscle would allow, and let one shoulder of her cardigan slip off. It was a complicated maneuver, but she figured it was worth a try.
Mike replied without acknowledging the gesture. “Well, at the risk of sounding like a druggie, plant-produced hallucinogens, like the compounds found in peyote, salvia, and ayahuasca. I am curious to see whether these compounds really do open the mind to new worlds. Do you think there is a future in studying such things?”
“I do. And I applaud your interest. I, too, find the subject of natural hallucinogens fascinating, but studying them is risky. It’s easy to become so absorbed in the topic, as many have, and consider self-experimentation. There have been several cases at the university, you know.” Henrietta returned her spectacles to her slightly reddened face and returned her cardigan to its normal state of frumpiness.
Mike looked at his tutor and cracked a wry grin. “No, I didn’t know, but I assure you that I’m no danger of becoming another statistic. I promise to be careful in whatever subject I settle on, wise tutor of mine. I am simply curious how and why nature has concocted formulations to transform the mind — you know, transforming the human brain from a caterpillar to a butterfly–mental metamorphosis.” The grinning freshman took a swig from his Dr. Pepper can. “There, an insect reference to make the subject more palatable, Cheat Code!”
Henrietta chortled. “Whatever, druggie! No, I get it. And what possessed early humans to ingest the stuff in the first place?” The entomologist’s eyes revealed (if anyone had been looking) that she had entered her thoughtful place. “Food experimentation, I would guess.”
Mike Talent put down his soda can with the “clink” of newfound determination. “I think I will take a few classes in neurochemistry in my junior year–once I am past all these mind-numbing mandatory courses.” He looked at his tutor and chuckled. “I mean, mind-numbing except for bug science!”
Henrietta tried to look offended, but failed. She laughed instead. “Well, everyone has to pay their dues, student of mine. Just promise me that if you do look into the fascinating realm of hallucinogens, you will not dive headlong into the deep end of the pool! You have a good head on your shoulders. I wouldn’t want to see your mind metamorphosed into something unrecognizable.”
“Lecture received, oh, great tutor and lover of bugs–and frozen pizza! I’ll do my best not to ‘range too far afield’.” Mike laughed heartily before popping open the last can of Dr. Pepper and chugging it.
Thanks to Henrietta’s expert tutoring, Mike Talent came away with an “A-” in Introduction to Entomology. The end of the semester signaled the end of Henrietta and Mike’s tutor-student relationship, though they did regularly encounter each other on campus. Henrietta remained enamored with Mike and nursed the hope that Mike would one day notice her as a woman. Each time they met, she would introduce a pinch of catalyst into the setting in hopes of initiating a chemical reaction: perfume first, then lipstick, then dangling earrings. Nothing seemed to work.
A year came and went, and Mike’s run-ins with Henrietta Lunsford thinned out. Mike was, as might be expected, less impacted by the eventuality than his former tutor. Henrietta stubbornly resisted reality and resorted to haunting the hallways of the biology department, intent on catching Mike between classes. She hadn’t reached “stalker” level, but she was coming close.
As for Mike, he was too busy chasing dreams to notice shadows. His passion for all things touching neurochemistry developed quickly since his talk with Henrietta. That passion wasn’t without consequence. He had aced all his freshman chemistry courses while still undecided about his major, but now that he had found his path, his performance was near phenomenal. Mr. Talent was living up to his namesake and was becoming the golden child of more than one of the biology department’s senior cadre.
Although the rising neurochemist usually had his nose in his books, he did carve out time in his schedule to socialize and date, sampling all the cheerleaders, dancers, and gymnasts he could seduce. To Mike Talent, dating was a hobby, a happy distraction between papers and lab assignments. He was not interested in long-term relationships.
Henrietta Lunsford dated, too, but watched Mike from the periphery whenever she could. She was not ready to concede defeat. She was convinced that she could sway Mike if given sufficient opportunity.
Mike’s junior year sailed by. It had been his favorite year, in large part because of his participation in an expedition to Central and South America in the fall semester. The trip was part of the rarely offered Ethnomycology In Context course. He was fortunate to discover a hitherto undescribed fungus on the trip, one purportedly used by a long-extinct tribe to induce intense otherworldly visions. Since the fungus had been approved by US Customs and had been expertly contained, Mike was allowed to bring a sample back to the university. Once in the botany lab, it, and other less storied specimens, would face painstaking and destructive examination.
Talent’s discovery was “the big deal” on campus. Everyone with the slightest interest in mycology and/or naturally occurring hallucinogens was aware of the find. Word even got around in the zoology department. Henrietta Lunsford was not surprised by the news. Mike may not be good at spotting a girl’s efforts at seduction, but he was detail-oriented. She felt proud of Mike, even bragging to friends and associates about how she had tutored the gifted undergraduate. But she was also worried for him.
Henrietta knew from her time with him that Mike had a deep curiosity about the unknown. He was not a fan of the hands-off, theoretical approach. The possession of a new source of hallucinogens might tempt him to experiment. She had to find a way to talk to him, to dissuade him from making any rash decisions.
Henrietta’s fears were justified. Once back in the botany lab, Mike Talent used his formidable charisma and his connections to secure nearly exclusive rights to the undescribed fungus he had named Boletus Talenti. He had to know the mushroom’s secrets. A mere two days after returning to the States, the young neurochemist had acquired a full terabyte of spectroanalysis data on the fungus. By the end of his first week home, he had isolated what he believed to be the fungus’s vision-inducing compound.
Perhaps it was fate that led Henrietta Lunsford to the botany lab on the day Mike Talent injected himself with mushroom juice. He was lying on the floor, face-up, when she found him. His eyes were half-closed, and he was moaning something she could not understand. She instantly knew what had happened and called 911.
A full fifteen minutes had elapsed from the time Henrietta hung up to when EMTs arrived. Mike Talent had lost consciousness in Henrietta’s arms ten minutes earlier. The promising young scientist was hauled off to Methodist General’s ER. Henrietta Lunsford followed the ambulance in her ancient Volkswagen.
Try as they might, the ER doctors could not prevent Mike from slipping into a coma. When the news of his condition was conveyed to Henrietta, who was pacing in the waiting area, the entomologist broke down in tears.
Far away, Mike Talent opened his eyes, not his natural eyes, but his inner eyes. He was lying supine on a brightly colored floor of shifting patterns. He was looking up at a domed ceiling of inestimable size. A small group of five strange, stunted humanoids with faceted heads and huge black eyes was standing about him, peering down at his form. “Were these the so-called ‘machine elves’ spoken about by DMT users?” Mike wondered. Suddenly, he heard voices. He could not tell if the voices were originating from the beings surrounding him.
“You have come!” the voices said in near unison. “Welcome to our world — a world where anything and everything is possible!”
“Your voices are displaced. Why?” Mike struggled to get to his feet. Two of the strange beings advanced and offered aid. They didn’t lift him up as much as grow upwards while supporting him under his arms. Mike was taken aback by the elasticity of the beings.
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Once on his feet, he thought he heard another voice. This one was much fainter that the others he had heard. The quiet voice was repeating the phrase “We lost him!” over and over.
Mike Talent looked down and discovered that he was naked. He should have been embarrassed, but he wasn’t. The pigment of his skin had stunned him so senseless that embarrassment was an impossibility. He was cobalt blue! He stood before the machine elves, stretched and otherwise, dumbfounded.
“How long will I be here?” blue Mike asked.
“Forever, most likely,” the two stretched elves responded. The three stunted elves nodded in agreement.
“Won’t I die?”
“Not for a while, I should think,” came the reply. “ Until then, we will help you.”
“Help me? How?” Talent was beginning to panic.
“Here, this should calm you,” said an elf to his front before transforming into a beautiful blue-skinned woman. Mike stared at the simulacrum for a moment. It appeared to be a woman, but a woman with four arms. The being reminded him instantly of the Indian god Vishnu, but in female form.
“I am not sure the extra arms help,” Mike managed to mumble. “This is all very weird! Are you sure I have to stay?”
“Yes!” the machine elves answered in chorus.
A sudden, inexplicable fear shot like lightning through Mike Talent’s new cobalt blue soul. He looked around for some place to run to. He gave no thought to the possibility that there was no place to go. Presently, he saw a portal to his left, some twenty or so feet away. Whatever lay beyond it was red–a uniform, manufactured red. He decided to break for the portal. He launched off his left foot and was soon at a sprint. To his surprise, the machine elves did not follow.
Mike crossed the portal’s threshold in four steps. He halted at the edge of a narrow platform on the opposite side. What appeared to be an endless plain or sea of blood-red semi-translucent stylized “waves” that lay beyond. Each wave formed a perfect arc, and all were textured with fine, smooth U-shaped channels. To the budding neurochemist, the waves looked like rows of old-style Fresnel taillight lenses overlaid on each other. The rows went on as far as the eye could see. The sky above the plain or sea was red, too, but of a lighter, less sanguine hue. There was a deep, almost thunderous, thrumming in the air, like the beating of a great heart with a nasty murmur. It was somewhat disconcerting to listen to.
Not knowing anything better to do, Mike decided to start running again. He stepped out onto a grooved wave. It deformed under his foot as if made of thick silicone rubber. He nearly lost his footing. It was not a surface made for running. Mike Talent chose to walk and to do so carefully.
Mike walked and walked, listening to the great thrumming. It was hot on the red plain or sea, or whatever it was, terribly hot. Hours passed. He continued, hoping to see a change in the scenery. Nothing new appeared.
How long he had walked or how far were mysteries to Mike. He had no frame of reference for time and space. There was a red sun in the red sky unleashing its fury, but the burning orb never moved. Feeling defeated, cobalt blue Mike sat down on one of the waves; it folded over stiffly forming a seat.
For the first time since arriving in the realm of the machine elves, Mike Talent closed his eyes. To his surprise, the scenery did not change. His eyelids had no purpose in this world. He began to sob. No tears came. The words of Henrietta Lunsford about “diving into the deep end of the pool” came back to him. He had truly and thoroughly screwed up!
Mike Talent sat in supreme loneliness upon the plain or sea of red, sobbing pathetically and listening to the pervasive thrumming noise, for a long time. He did not know how long. In real-world time, his sobbing session consumed nearly fifteen years of his life. Occasionally, he would hear a voice, not much more than a whisper, competing with the all-pervasive thrumming — it sounded like Henrietta Lunsford’s voice. He couldn’t make out what it was saying most the time, but every once and a while he made out the phrases “Hang in there!”, “Please wake up!” and “I love you.”.
****
Cobalt blue Mike had felt the pangs of hunger and thirst during his long trek across the vast redness and at times during his personal pity party, but the sequiturs of dizziness, weakness, and delirium never came. The once-vaunted pupil of brain chemistry thought it unfair that he could not starve or die of thirst in the strange world he had thrust himself into.
Talent had just begun to consider returning the way he came when he heard a rumbling sound, like the sound of rushing water. It steadily increased in volume until it drowned out the thrumming. He sprang to his feet and looked around. To his surprise, he could see an immeasurable stretch of something as black as pitch advancing toward him. He watched as whatever it was closed in on him. It looked like crude oil, but far less viscous.
The cobalt blue figure standing in redness did not try to escape the onslaught of the black fluid. There was, after all, no place to escape to. He waited for the stuff, hoping it would perhaps “snuff him out.” To his dismay, the raven tsunami that eventually engulfed him did not kill him. Instead, he was carried away with its flow, like a pebble in a fast-flowing stream.
Mike tumbled for a long time in the dark belly of the deluge. How long he did not know. In real time, just over five years had passed.
Ultimately, the flood disgorged him on the muddy banks of a lake. It took a while for Mike to get his bearings. All the tumbling had ruined his sense of orientation. He determined that the mud under his feet must be “down,” and, with some difficulty, moved his upper body away from the mud. Once upright, he scanned his environs.
To his amazement, not a trace of black fluid remained in sight. Instead, he was looking at what appeared to be fresh water. It wasn’t clean, but it looked no different than the water he had seen and waded in in the real world. To his delight, the sky was blue, except for some gray clouds looming in long “fronts” on the horizon.
Reeds and grass grew in the shallows. These moved, slowly tracing ellipses, in a breeze that he could feel. There was movement in the water, too. He could see tadpoles and something else — nymphs of some sort. He knelt down to run his hand through the water. What he saw was not a hand, but a segmented appendage, brown-striped and tipped with a claw.
Suddenly, Mike felt his insides contract. It was incredibly painful. He doubled over and lost his balance. He entered the water with a splash, but not a big one. Mike once again found himself looking for an up and a down. As he scanned his surroundings, something large passed under him. He could just make out what it was in the sediment-laden water. It was one of the tadpoles he had seen just moments earlier. “I’m a freaking nymph! Damn it!” he cried (though no sound came).
Nymph Mike swam to a nearby reed and grasped it with his new legs. What next?
Night came, and nothing happened. Eventually, light began to filter down from above. Mike felt the irresistible urge to climb out of the water and did so. Once near the tip of the reed, Mike stopped. It wasn’t long before he felt a burning. He felt like he was on fire. His vision blurred. He realized then that he was moulting. What was he transforming into now? He was tired of the surprises this bizarre world sprung on him. It was as if his own mind was punishing him.
Mike looked across the reed bed and saw another creature like himself. It too was shedding its old skin. “I’m a mayfly! Dammit! I’m a mayfly! What a fate!”
A loud voice boomed over the lake, causing the water to ripple. “No, you’re Mike! Mike Talent!” it said.
Mayfly Mike sprang into the air and began to fly toward the voice. Thousands of others like him joined in the ascent. Suddenly, the sky peeled apart like a scroll, and in its place was room and a gargantuan head — a human head! Mike thought the scene looked very biblical.
It took Talent a moment, but he recognized the owner of the giant head. It was Henrietta Lunsford, but an older, worn version.
“Stay with me, Mike,” the head said.
But Mike could not stay. He was being drawn back. He watched as the sky repaired itself. He was once again a mayfly, flying (rather ungainly) over the surface of a lake. He was looking for something — a female to mate with. Yes, that was his purpose! He must perpetuate the species! Suddenly, there was a tightness in his chest, and he careened towards the surface of the lake. His sight dimmed. The gaping maw of a fish rising to meet him was the last thing he perceived.
The last thing Mike Talent heard was a thunderous voice in the heavens saying, “He’s flatlined. I’m sorry, Ms. Lunsford.”
