The Stones of Instruction

The air hung heavy outside the school, or what might have been a school--an expanse of cracked pavement framed by walls too low to keep anything in or out. I sat on a bench that seemed to shift beneath me, its wood splintering into my palms as if testing my resolve. Somewhere nearby, Amanda Palmer stood, her presence a shadow with no source, humming a tune I couldn't place but felt I ought to know. The sky pressed down, gray and unyielding, like a lid on a jar.

Two young men sat across from me, their faces smooth and symmetrical, their eyes too bright. One of them leaned forward, his voice soft yet insistent, as though he'd rehearsed it. "Come with me to my car," he said. "I'd like you to sing Dresden Dolls songs there." His companion nodded, a faint smile curling his lips, but neither moved. The car--a vague shape at the edge of my vision--loomed like a trap baited with velvet seats. I opened my mouth to refuse, but a gritty weight pressed against my tongue. Small stones, pebbles, cold and uninvited, filled my mouth. I spat them out, one by one, into my hand; they clinked against each other, dull and accusing. The young man watched, unperturbed, as if this were part of the ritual.

"Why?" I asked, my voice hoarse from the stones' passage. He only tilted his head, his smile widening, offering no answer. Suspicion coiled in my chest, a snake with no head or tail, and I turned away, clutching the pebbles as if they might speak.

Beyond the bench, a crowd had gathered -- left-wing anarchists, their banners drooping, their eyes restless. I stood, compelled by a duty I couldn't name, and began to speak of Infrared's (InfraHaz's) crisscross theory of politics. The words stumbled from me, heavy with the aftertaste of stone. "He's already reached out to the libertarian Right," I said, gesturing to a horizon that swallowed itself. "Their mistrust of systems aligns with us, in a way. But we must do the same with the authoritarian Right--the (totalitarian) traditionalists, monarchists, Christian nationalists, fascists, Nazis--all of them." The anarchists murmured, their faces blurring into a single mask of doubt. "It's a lattice," I pressed on, "a web where opposites meet, not a line to be drawn." My hands trembled, scattering the pebbles to the ground, where they rolled into patterns I couldn't read.

A voice interrupted--a woman's, sharp and melodic. Amanda Palmer stepped closer, her hair a tangle of black threads, her eyes glinting with something between mockery and pity. She sang softly, a song I hadn't heard yet knew: "Teddy bears plant trees in rows, their paws dig deep, their stitches fray; I stop them cold, I break their hoes, for roots must rot where I hold sway." The words curled around me, a riddle I was meant to solve. I stared at her, the pebbles' weight still lingering in my jaw. "Are the teddy bears authoritarian Right environmentalists?" I asked, my voice thin against her song. She paused, her lips parting in a grin that revealed nothing, then resumed humming, as if my question were a stone she'd swallowed and spat back.

The young man rose from his seat, his companion following like a shadow stitched to his heels. "The car's still waiting," he said, his tone unchanged. I looked past him to the anarchists, who now whispered among themselves, their words a buzzing I couldn't decipher. One stepped forward, his coat patched with slogans, and handed me a pamphlet--blank, its pages smooth as glass. "Explain it again," he demanded, though his eyes drifted to the car. I tried, but my mouth filled once more with stones, larger now, jagged. I spat them out, choking, and they struck the pavement with a sound like breaking teeth.

Amanda Palmer laughed, a sound that split the air, and the teddy bears appeared--plush figures with button eyes, clutching shovels, planting saplings in the cracks of the pavement. I lunged to stop them, as she had sung, but my hands passed through their fur, grasping only dust. The anarchists watched, unmoved, while the young man beckoned again. "Sing," he said, "or teach. It's all the same." The car's door creaked open, a maw of shadow, and the stones returned, piling in my throat until I could neither speak nor scream.

I stood there, pinned between the school's walls and the car's pull, the anarchists' blank stares and Palmer's ceaseless tune. The pebbles at my feet multiplied, spreading like a flood, and I understood, or thought I did, that Infrared's (InfraHaz's) theory was no theory at all--just a map of a maze with no exit, drawn by hands I'd never see. The teddy bears dug on, the trees rose, and I spat one final stone, watching it roll toward the car, where it vanished without a sound.