By the Golden Light

It was a late evening and Kate was lying in bed with a book. It was the cabin where her father used to take them when she was little, now it was all hers. It was winter time, and dark above with white snow below. It was quiet and cozy. She was reading by an old-fashioned yellow light bulb.

The book was an arcane tale, one of those old complex ones. One of those arabesques or adjectives and adverbs. The story winded through the streets of Marrakesh and London and other places that seemed made up, and everybody was wearing a top hat or a bonnet and gloves.

Kate saw a word she did not know and felt it was important to the story, so she pulled out her phone from the dresser (even though she promised herself it was an offline evening).

”Okay, Google,” she said, and the device came to life, “Incandescent,” she said. The device returned a dictionary entry and read the word and the definition. Kate smiled and nodded.

She put the phone away and then thought about how such evenings lost all of their charm. She thought about how her father would disapprove. She also thought how the forest in the winter no longer held any mystery.

Meanwhile, across the river, a girl was reading a book on her phone. She was all under her covers, swallowing the story whole, too afraid of the winter and the night to look away from the brilliant light of the display. The clear, searing light of reason.

”Okay, Google,” the girl said, “Incandescent.”

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk