Qualia, Pierce, & The Time Ship
Marriage therapy has never been so expensive or weird or twisted. It’s a bumpy ride to awareness....
Qualia's an elderly widow, dying alone in her bedroom. Suddenly, she’s a young housewife in a psychiatrist’s office, explaining how she’s hearing voices in the walls of her house—and how her husband, Pierce, is ignoring her. There’s something wrong with her world. No one wants to take her money, except for her disbelieving psychiatrist—and Pierce pays for him. Did Pierce write the book to drive her mad? Is her doctor gaslighting her? Can she trust anyone except the talking walls? Bit by bit, she peels open the mystery. Then it’s Pierce’s turn…
Qualia's an elderly widow, dying alone in her bedroom. Suddenly, she’s a young housewife in a psychiatrist’s office, explaining how she’s hearing voices in the walls of her house—and how her husband, Pierce, is ignoring her. There’s something wrong with her world. No one wants to take her money, except for her disbelieving psychiatrist—and Pierce pays for him. Did Pierce write the book to drive her mad? Is her doctor gaslighting her? Can she trust anyone except the talking walls? Bit by bit, she peels open the mystery. Then it’s Pierce’s turn…
QUALIA (the start of the novel)
Qualia—that’s the name Pierce gave her when they met—clutched her narrow chest and gasped. Her eyes watered and she trembled, for this was the worst pain yet. She’d missed Pierce for fifty years, but she’d see him soon, and her hand—yellow and clammy and knotted with arthritis—reached for the phone…
“Sometimes, the walls talk.”
Walden looked up. “Can you understand the words?”
Qualia shook her head and stared into space. “No, it’s all muffled…”
Walden shifted in his chair. “We sometimes think we hear words in noise,” he reached out and twiddled an imaginary knob, “like ghost-voices in radio static—you know, between stations…”
“Maybe,” allowed Qualia, “yes, that’s probably it. It might be the traffic outside…” Her eyes, bright and alert, flicked up, checking for faces in the cornice. Dappled light shifted, and a demon formed on the wall and then dissolved. “But this voice sounds real—not like cars and stuff…”
“OK, we’ll come back to the walls later. How’s it going with Pierce?”
Qualia cleared her throat, threw back her head, pushed out her breasts, and sniffed, like a young queen disappointed in her consort. “He’s absorbed in his work—out all day, and on his computer all night. I never see him.”
“He sounds like a busy man.”
“He is.” Qualia twitched her arms as if she were trying to shake off bugs. “I used to be busy…”
“It happens,” said Walden. “People change, and relationships re-balance…”
“I can’t seem to settle.” Qualia shuddered. “I can’t do anything—nothing useful, anyway…”
“You’ve still got your art…”
“I can’t concentrate on painting—the strokes are all wrong and the colours won’t mix—and I’ve run out of ideas.”
“You could doodle,” suggested Walden, and he drew air loops, “until the ideas come…”
“I have tried sketching,” said Qualia, and she smirked. “I’ve even tried writing, but it’s all wrong. And I can’t sing, and I can’t sew. And I hate cooking.” Her eyes fixed Walden. “I’m a useless wife.”
“Try again,” said Walden, “art’s therapeutic.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can recommend someone…”
“No, I’ll manage…”
Acantha Channing—Qualia’s worldly friend and part-time seller of high fashion shoes—was flummoxed. “I’m at a bit of a loss,” she said, fluttering her hands, “a complete loss, to be honest.”
Qualia stirred her cappuccino, destroying the fern-leaf pattern in its froth. “It’s exhaustion, I suppose.” She clinked the spoon in the saucer. “I’m bored, and I’ve lost interest in everything, and I’m getting old…”
“You’re thirty-two, for God’s sake. I wish I was—”
“Pierce is never around,” said Qualia, still distracted, “I’ve got nothing to do. And before you say anything, I don’t want kids.”
An old man walked past and doffed his hat, but his old-world charm didn’t penetrate their private bubble.
“Do something extreme,” said Acantha, as the man walked away. “Try skydiving.”
“I’m not that jaded.” Qualia sipped her scorching coffee and jolted. “I don’t want to die. I want to live—except I can’t be bothered. I want to want to live…”
“Have a blistering affair.” Acantha spread her hands, indicating a world full of possibilities. “Would you like recommendations?”
“God, no—one man’s bad enough, I certainly don’t want two. And I don’t trust your taste in men.”
“What about Paxton?” Acantha lowered her head and voice. “You can’t object to Paxton.”
“No one can object to Paxton,” said Qualia with a thin smile, “but can he stir me up and make my heart beat?”
Acantha nodded. “You’re right, it might take more than Paxton to start you up…”
In the background, the old man gave a bow, as if pleased with his earlier performance, and then he exited, nodding left and right at the imaginary applause.
“I’ll go to the markets tomorrow,” said Qualia, “and buy a book. Then I can sit and read. And escape.”
“How exciting!” Acantha clapped her hands and smirked. “Why not try something real for a change?”
“Like Paxton?” asked Qualia, and they both laughed...
continue reading QUALIA
Qualia—that’s the name Pierce gave her when they met—clutched her narrow chest and gasped. Her eyes watered and she trembled, for this was the worst pain yet. She’d missed Pierce for fifty years, but she’d see him soon, and her hand—yellow and clammy and knotted with arthritis—reached for the phone…
“Sometimes, the walls talk.”
Walden looked up. “Can you understand the words?”
Qualia shook her head and stared into space. “No, it’s all muffled…”
Walden shifted in his chair. “We sometimes think we hear words in noise,” he reached out and twiddled an imaginary knob, “like ghost-voices in radio static—you know, between stations…”
“Maybe,” allowed Qualia, “yes, that’s probably it. It might be the traffic outside…” Her eyes, bright and alert, flicked up, checking for faces in the cornice. Dappled light shifted, and a demon formed on the wall and then dissolved. “But this voice sounds real—not like cars and stuff…”
“OK, we’ll come back to the walls later. How’s it going with Pierce?”
Qualia cleared her throat, threw back her head, pushed out her breasts, and sniffed, like a young queen disappointed in her consort. “He’s absorbed in his work—out all day, and on his computer all night. I never see him.”
“He sounds like a busy man.”
“He is.” Qualia twitched her arms as if she were trying to shake off bugs. “I used to be busy…”
“It happens,” said Walden. “People change, and relationships re-balance…”
“I can’t seem to settle.” Qualia shuddered. “I can’t do anything—nothing useful, anyway…”
“You’ve still got your art…”
“I can’t concentrate on painting—the strokes are all wrong and the colours won’t mix—and I’ve run out of ideas.”
“You could doodle,” suggested Walden, and he drew air loops, “until the ideas come…”
“I have tried sketching,” said Qualia, and she smirked. “I’ve even tried writing, but it’s all wrong. And I can’t sing, and I can’t sew. And I hate cooking.” Her eyes fixed Walden. “I’m a useless wife.”
“Try again,” said Walden, “art’s therapeutic.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can recommend someone…”
“No, I’ll manage…”
Acantha Channing—Qualia’s worldly friend and part-time seller of high fashion shoes—was flummoxed. “I’m at a bit of a loss,” she said, fluttering her hands, “a complete loss, to be honest.”
Qualia stirred her cappuccino, destroying the fern-leaf pattern in its froth. “It’s exhaustion, I suppose.” She clinked the spoon in the saucer. “I’m bored, and I’ve lost interest in everything, and I’m getting old…”
“You’re thirty-two, for God’s sake. I wish I was—”
“Pierce is never around,” said Qualia, still distracted, “I’ve got nothing to do. And before you say anything, I don’t want kids.”
An old man walked past and doffed his hat, but his old-world charm didn’t penetrate their private bubble.
“Do something extreme,” said Acantha, as the man walked away. “Try skydiving.”
“I’m not that jaded.” Qualia sipped her scorching coffee and jolted. “I don’t want to die. I want to live—except I can’t be bothered. I want to want to live…”
“Have a blistering affair.” Acantha spread her hands, indicating a world full of possibilities. “Would you like recommendations?”
“God, no—one man’s bad enough, I certainly don’t want two. And I don’t trust your taste in men.”
“What about Paxton?” Acantha lowered her head and voice. “You can’t object to Paxton.”
“No one can object to Paxton,” said Qualia with a thin smile, “but can he stir me up and make my heart beat?”
Acantha nodded. “You’re right, it might take more than Paxton to start you up…”
In the background, the old man gave a bow, as if pleased with his earlier performance, and then he exited, nodding left and right at the imaginary applause.
“I’ll go to the markets tomorrow,” said Qualia, “and buy a book. Then I can sit and read. And escape.”
“How exciting!” Acantha clapped her hands and smirked. “Why not try something real for a change?”
“Like Paxton?” asked Qualia, and they both laughed...
continue reading QUALIA