Apparently in a world not so different from our own, in a realm where shadows stretched long and the air hung heavy with the weight of impending twilight, there dwelt a mobile challenged, rotund and lethargic gecko, christened Gertha. Gertha found solace in basking amidst the warmth and tranquility of snug alcoves. Yet, alas, fate is seldom kind, for on one ill-starred day, whilst venturing through the aisles of a local supermarket, Gertha’s unrelenting insouciant curiosity and nose for sustenance ensnared her within the frigid bowels of a meat locker. The portal of this icy tomb slammed shut with a finality that echoed with the dirges of despair, enclosing her in a sinister embrace, amidst an abyssal landscape adorned with curtains of frozen cadavers of once-vital creatures. The cruel kiss of winter's chill gnawed at Gertha's essence, sapping her vitality and rendering her skin a spectral hue of azure. Feeble attempts to ascend the gelid ramparts and grasp the iron lever that barred her escape yielded naught but the agonizing stiffness of her own form. Desperation, an ever-encroaching specter, gripped her heart with icy talons, whispering the cruel promise of eternal confinement. Yet, when all seemed lost, when the macabre tendrils of despair seemed poised to claim her forlorn reptilian soul, a voice, faint and spectral pierced the desolate gloom. From the unseen recesses of a lattice air duct, a venerable gecko, ancient and wise, proffered counsel unto Gertha. The elder, versed in the arcane secrets of survival, unveiled a cryptic path to liberation, though it traversed realms hitherto uncharted within the fabric of Gertha’s imagination. The task at hand was nigh implausible — a requiem of improbable harmony and unholy resonance. Gertha, the sedentary creature, was urged to conjure a tempestuous symphony not from instruments but from the very essence of her being. She must steadfastly vibrate as an electric kitten’s purr in the tempest's wail, whilst intoning the haunting refrains of Steely Dan inventions of a distant age. Such an amalgamation of melody and tremor, it was believed, would kindle a fervor within her torpid flesh, birthing a conflagration to thaw the shackles that held her captive. Skepticism, that most resilient of companions, knitted its brow upon Gertha's countenance. The seasoned gecko's bequest sounded as if whispered by phantoms, borne on the shifting tides of madness. Ensnared as she was in the clutches of an unyielding winter, Gertha's resolve, forged in the crucible of hopelessness, eclipsed her doubt. She commenced her arcane endeavor, a wild wave of corporeal quiverings woven with the ethereal echoes of Steely Dan's lamentations. And lo, as if the chamber itself bore witness to some eldritch metamorphosis, Gertha's form began to shudder, the tremors growing as if guided by some dread conductor of the abyss. Her essence, aflame with an incendiary fervor, clashed against the ice that constricted her freedom. As she sang and quivered, a burgeoning warmth emanated from her very being. Before her incredulous eyes, the icy vice that had held her captive began to relent, droplets of water trickling down in surrender. With a burst of renewed vigor, Gertha summoned every ounce of her strength and leaped on top the door latch. Her plumpness, a virtue for a change, rendered the locker open for a brief second enough for her to narrowly escape the frosty prison. With an exultant cry she bounded forth into an aisle, now resplendent with warmth and possibility, leading her towards the supermarket’s exit. Her jubilation knew no bounds, and she bestowed profuse thanks upon her wise, air duct-dwelling mentor who was there to greet her with open adhesive pads.
From that moment forth, Gertha bore witness to the astonishing power of her inner vibrations entwined with Steely Dan songs, and she embarked upon a new regimen of diet and adventure. Her days of languorous repose now seemed but a distant memory as she embraced her newfound lease on life with unbridled enthusiasm.
But alas, the enticing smell of sticky fresh tar on a neighbor's rejuvenated drive way, got the best of her. If only that steamroller had a heart, she’d still be here among us mortals to beguile us with more apocryphal tales of danger and mishap!
If only.
Tis' a haunting reminder that even within the most jubilant verses of life's melodic odyssey, the dirges of doom remain poised, awaiting their melancholic note.
credits
from Artificial Tales Of Gleep And Whimsy (Vol. 2),
released November 6, 2023
JT : Programming, Mix
Voice: Morticia Bater
Recorded and Mixed at Suburban Hermit Studios III, Ronkonkoma, NY
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