Dan

Candyman

I could write it like a horror story, the way the world ends, or I could write it like a beautiful dream. You could describe the awful shock of suddenly waking up to a world colored in radioactive glowing pinks and purples, sitting up to exclaim some profanity, and instead vomiting tiny colorful candies all over the bed. Or you could tell the truth about the end of the world, because I have to be honest here. It feels amazing when the candy pours out of my mouth unbidden. Even that first time, when my shock and horror gave way to supreme bliss, I knew that this was what my life was leading up to.

I know that sounds stupid when I write it down, like that. But it brings me great joy. It is a pleasure greater than orgasm, a wholesome gift of giving. It is what I am meant to do.

When the children follow me down the marshmallow streets, laughing with glee as they bounce and play, I am grateful that I have this blessing. I open my mouth, and out pours a twinkling sugary tornado of delicious candy. Their eyes go wide, and they race to catch some of it before it bounces into the candy sewers. (I make a point to let my creation bounce on the soft white streets first, before they grab it up, because otherwise it still feels somehow… profane?) At any rate, the children, they gobble the little candies up, and I can tell the taste is amazing even though I am unable to eat anything now, after the end. I grin and doff my cotton candy hat and twirl my candy cane at them, and make my way to wherever I wander.

I can’t eat, because any time I open my mouth, the torrent of little candies forces anything I put in there right back out. So I can’t even really enjoy my own product, as it were. Or any of the other confections our new world consists of. But it’s not all that bad, really. Nobody needs to eat any more, and everyone is impossibly healthy. I don’t miss it.

Nobody has jobs. Pain is not a thing anyone remembers. Suffering and inequality do not exist in our bizarre heaven of fluorescent spiraling colors and sugared treats. And wishes over cakes and candles sometimes actually do come true, for the truly lucky children.

But it is the end of the world, in a way. Just pleasure and absurdity, hand in hand, walking into an implausibly golden sunset.

Nobody knows how it happened. Was it aliens? A subversive, gnostic God? An architected intelligence whose value function tilted too far to the goofy end of the spectrum, and it landed us here? Nobody knows, and few people worry about it. Life goes on, after this ending. On and on and on. With sprinkles on top. Sprinkles everywhere, come to think of it.

Nobody dies any more. Nobody even ages any more. And nobody can get pregnant with all our genitals turned into various unfeeling candy shapes. But nobody misses all that, because the pure joy of creating whatever strange happiness you have been blessed with is all that matters. I would not be surprised if I was the only person on Earth who even managed to think of death this entire year. I was always the cynical sort, I suppose, and not even my mouth’s new blessing has completely taken that away.

I’m not even sure how many years have passed. All the paper and pens got turned into magical scrolls which become cute little confectionary animals when you draw on them. So I had to write all this on a giant house-sized cake, and then try to wish it into a different place. A different world, perhaps a world where candy has not yet made us all shiver with undying pleasure. But my wishing will likely fail, and soon the children will eat the cake, and I will smile at them and nod. We will forget all about the world before bliss took over.

I will open my mouth, and the purest joy will pour out.

Advertisements
Standard