Does the endless expanse of flatness make midwesterners constantly existential? Tomorrow is our last day in civilization before we enter the woods tomorrow. Pete and I have planned five loops or in-and-out backpacking excursions, returning to society in Salt Lake City for a relaxing end-cap, for me. Then Pete’s going on two more excursions with his cousin and a buddy of his.

Anyways, today we left his sister’s house in Abilene, Kansas, and I wrote this little short story last night to reflect my feelings and gratitude for the experience. (Names changed for privacy.)

The Very Pulse of the Machine (Love Death and Robots on Netflix)

The following short story is inspired by the Netflix original series Love Death and Robots, Season 3 Episode “The Very Pulse of the Machine.” My stay in Kansas, my first time seeing with my own eyes the great expansive flatness of the midwest, generated the sensation of infinite existence that I feel the episode conveyed as well. However, I am easily over-stimulated by animations and video media, so I wrote my own variation of the sentiment.

Existentialism in the Midwest

As she fell asleep on her last night in the bubble community of dusty Abilene, she found herself yet waking within a semi-dream.

She rose slowly and softly, floating; miraculously not waking him as he snored soundly in the other bed. She fawned over his peaceful face as she glided past, uncontrollably pulled as if by a current up the stairs and out the front door, down the driveway and to the end of their truck bed.

The air which lifted her gently set her back down, her toes grasping wide as sand and gravel nestled between them.

Wondrously, she craned her neck to watch the stars. She stood there, dazed, braless in a t-shirt and naked legged in boxer briefs, for so long that when she finally looked back down, her head hurt.

It must have been hours, she thought, that I've been standing here. She tested her stiffness with a squat and a stretch.

The sound of a tire track from behind neared her, the light crunching of rock and a soft bell like a nomadic fairy's carriage.

It was the kids' tricycle, the one she'd pulled Reece in and pushed Lina forward on. As the light of the moon gleamed across the red body of this mini vehicle, it swelled behind ripples in her clarity. Her vision unfocused and readjusted, and suddenly the tricycle was to her size.

Without question she mounted it and took off. She rode the full circle past the rock snake, over the bridge, round the dirt road and past the burn pit. She passed Penny's and spotted a painted stone with googly eyes. She recognized Leron's golf cart just as she reached the lake. She imagined thousands of turtles scuttling down the lake beach and waved at the cows far away.

She hadn't noticed how far she'd still been riding, straight ahead, until the community was gone.

Half-riding and half-rising she went on and on and over and over the endless corn fields and dust-riddled roads. She rode until it chilled, and she kept on still.

For no reason at all, it seemed, she slowed and dismounted. Not two steps away from it, looking back, the tricycle was small again. Not a few steps more, and there it was - rolling back on its own like a horse, home. One chance look back again and it disappeared on the dark horizon.

On she walked. It was all much of the same, and quite empty, but she kept walking.

The stars glittered, and some shot across, and a few here and there seemed directed, uniform, satellites.

She walked until dawn, and then she walked through the sunrise. Cars and people moved as though through a haze, like the heat waves evaporating off asphalt hung a semi-transparent curtain between her and the rest.

She walked days and then weeks. She drank none and sweat little. Still vulnerable in pajamas and no shoes, but invisible and isolated.

Time slowed in the nighttime, and still she kept pace. Only after the moon became new and the world became black, did she finally wonder,

Where am I?

In answer, the blackness cracked. A perfect vertical line in neon green, smoke emitting from the gap in vaporous forms.

Then she wondered,

What am I?

In answer, the gap spread in its consumption, bleeding outwards and forwards and yet instant, a fallen mass.

And then she wondered,

What am I... not?

And she was no more.