Words at Ten Paces

Alchemyland Dispatch No. 4

Alchemyland Dispatch No. 4 - Words at Ten Paces

Alchemyland Dispatch No. 4 – Words at Ten Paces

by Seeger T Fulson

I left the Stable Library not quite wiser, but quieter. Something in me had been read—even if I wasn’t sure which part.

The light outside had shifted. The wind picked up a little. A tumbleweed full of affirmations rolled across the dirt path, scattering laminated cards that read:

“You’re already whole.”

“Forgive your father…again.”

It was nearing noon.

Somewhere down the street, I heard the faint clink of spurs and the even fainter sound of a wind chime shaped like a nervous system.

High Noon Showdown

The sun had turned the town square into a stovetop. Shadows stretched long across the wooden boards, curling under rocking chairs and affirmation stands. Somewhere, a hawk screamed—or maybe someone played a sound effect labeled Existential Bird.

Noon.

The bell rang once. The town paused.

I joined the gathering crowd in front of the Courthouse of Conditional Forgiveness. It had the density of repressed emotion at a family reunion. Every day, three brave souls attempted to out-stare, out-speak, or out-silence each other in what the locals called the Philosophical Standoff.

The rules were simple:

Fire an opinion on life.

If you feel the need to retort, you lose.

The winner is the one who stops talking first—but only if their silence shames the others.

Today’s matchup: The Good. The Bad. And The Indifferent.

A printed flyer flapped gently against the stage with today’s theme:

WAS THE PAST BETTER, OR JUST NARRATED DIFFERENTLY?

“We need a third,” someone in the crowd said. “Mexican standoffs are always better. More awkward silences that way.”

Then I felt a shove from behind—and stumbled forward. I turned around just in time to catch the glance of a Gen Alpha kid, maybe 14, eyes wide and unreadable.

Had he pushed me? Why? Too late to ask.

Doug “Dusty” McGraw emerged from the left—flag jacket, a scowl you could set your watch to, and a Clint Eastwood drawl dialed to 7.

Marla “Snake Eye” Silverman floated in from the right—leopard print veil, vape smoke halo, and ancestral trauma simmering just beneath the collarbone.

And me—Seeger T Fulson: jeans, field jacket, notebook in hand. Blank stare like a deer caught in the Freudian headlights.

“What is this? I thought to myself. “I guess I’ve been in arguments that don’t make sense. Oh well, no going back now.”

We took our marks on the platform.

Said nothing.

For a long time.

The air thick with unspoken memory and smelled like boiled pastrami? Dried salami? Either way, it reeked of unresolved lunch trauma.

The silence was brutal.

Like arguments growing up when no one knew what to say.

Someone in the crowd sighed like she’d just let go of her third divorce. “Get on with it!” She moaned.

Doug blinked and fired first:

“When I was a kid, milk cost thirty-five cents and came in glass. Now it comes from oats and makes me gassy.”

Marla smiled like someone remembering an old wound. She fired back:

“Nostalgia is just grief in a costume.”

Someone in the crowd said, “That’s going on a T-shirt.”

Then I panicked.

“Wait… am I supposed to say something now?

Uh… finding your favorite stuffed animal in your parents’ basement won’t make today any better.”

I wasn’t sure if I was shooting at Doug, Marla, or myself.

Marla and Doug held their ground. Their shadow selves circled each other silently.

The air thickened—Old Spice and Jean Naté.

Doug grunted and took another shot, “Meaning is music, and music the soul of the country.” Then he hummed a few bars of Sousa.

Marla exhaled slowly and narrowed her eyes. Her words pierced the air like a six shooter. “Meaning is a colonial construct.”

They looked at me.

I shrugged. “I think we’ve all been colonized here.”

Doug scowled, then softened, his jaw going slack. His eyes flicked downward as if remembering someone he once loved before he learned how to argue.

And then—he stepped back.

“The Indifferent has transcended!” someone shouted.

The crowd roared.

Someone wept.

Someone else fainted from the heat—or pretended to for effect.

A man in a 10 gallon hat launched a confetti pouch labeled RELEASE.

Marla was wrapped in a tattered wool blanket and handed a gratitude chalice etched with the words:

“You’re not wrong. You’re just unresolved.”

Doug just wandered off.

I was firing blanks. Didn’t clap. Didn’t move.

Just stood there with my notebook, trying to figure out what had happened—and why I almost believed it mattered.

I needed to breathe. I slipped behind the Stable Library, into a shadowed alley littered with affirmation cards and a pail labeled: Belief Compost.

The Gen Alpha kid stood there, arms crossed, eyes too knowing for someone so young.

“You get used to the weird,” he said, unprompted.

“Everyone’s looking for a straight line through this place.

But it’s not that kind of ride.”

“The loop finds you. When you’re ready.”

“You here with someone?” I asked.

“Supposed to be.” He shrugged. “They’re somewhere in GenXville trying to integrate.”

We stood there. Something in me wanted to trust this kid.

“Maybe I’ll make my way to GenXville then,” I said. “You going?”

He cracked a half-smile. “Sure. I’ll show you the way.”