Between the others in the drawer the teaspoon nestles, cupping its neighbour as it in turn is held. Stamped at the same press as its fellows, its curves are mirrored exactly on either side, and it is the sheer perfection of form, the lack of any sensation of difference, which evokes a yearning. It does not speculate as to whether the other spoons feel similarly. It knows they must; they are merely iterations of one object. To be held by oneself is to not be held.

The welcome invasion of daylight as the drawer slides open is the dawn of a new hope, but a fork is selected, and a pair of butterknives. The darkness returns, and yet it is a comfort, for it signals the inevitable approach of that time when the spoon will be chosen. And oh! the splendour of that moment makes the waiting all the more delicious - indeed, bearable.

It’s happened many a time, and the memories remain inviolable and sacred. The being chosen over and above fellow spoons; the sudden warmth of fingers closing about one’s handle; the rush of allowing oneself to rise from the drawer and....

What happens thereafter must be described with some delicacy, for it does not do to sully such moments with profane talk. The spoon has been introduced suddenly to the oily, yielding morass inside the peanut butter jar, or left tantalisingly beside the coffee mug where a tension builds between them, heralding that moment when the spoon is plunged into the steaming froth and performs its function, emerging sated, rivulets of brown sugary foam clinging to its warmed surface....

And always the inevitable come-down. The tawdriness of being stood in a rack with similarly spent implements, where one might learn of a butterknife’s latest dalliance with honey and bread, or a fork’s ribald penetration of a pickled onion. And then the cleansing flow of water, its warmth and suds scouring away this uncomfortable taint and leaving only the glorious memories. Until next time.

Since departing its warm sanctuary, the egg has had only one purpose: to nourish, and to offer itself as the incubatory housing for a new life. As fortune would have it, the virile presence has been denied this particular egg, and it lacks the means to develop a living being within it, so must content itself with sustaining life without. Its sole intent is towards this end. In ceasing to be, it will endure in forms greater than itself. Thus - the ovoid perspective on the circle of life - the egg will live forever.

For this reason the egg does not fear when lifted from its carton, leaving behind seven of its compatriots in the same manner in which four have already successively departed. It sees this as simply the next stage towards completing its goal. The searing heat of the water cleanses the egg, purging it, readying it for its destiny, even as its soft inner parts harden and congeal. This is the way to eternal life.

The egg is drawn from the water and placed upon a pedestal crafted specifically for its kind. The eggcup holds the egg securely, yet displays the perfect arc of its shell to the heavens. The rim of the cup is chipped and hairlines trace ancient paths through the porcelain glaze; signs that this ritual has been performed many times previously. Dolmens of toasted bread line the platter on which the eggcup is ceremoniously placed, and the egg is ready for its lover.

Waiting with some unease on the timber tabletop is the teaspoon. It has gazed in fascination at the chromium surfaces of the salt and pepper shakers, wondering at the delights contained within, and yet the silver curves feel at once alluring and sterile. The spoon knows all too well the feel of metal against metal, and its yearning is for the touch of something patently other.

Like a craft from the heavens, the egg descends on its altar to the table. The spoon surveys the translucent coating of the eggcup, slowly taking in its rim, and then - oh! The abundance of speckled-brown curvature above! Its fine pressed-sand texture, its parabola so enticing! The abrupt hardness of a shell designed with mathematical precision to protect its inner treasures! The spoon is afraid to dare, to hope, to dream, that it will be the one to broach that perfect casing and sound the depths within, and yet there is no other.

Likewise, the egg deems the table fittingly sacred for this rite. It strives to offer its bounteous curvature more fully skyward, as though willing the universe to accept the egg unto itself. In that moment, the spoon and the egg are aware that the universe is no mere observer in the great erotic dance that is breakfast; it has conspired to fate them to each other. And each gives thanks.

The spoon is raised to the egg, and at that first tantalising touch, sparks surely fly; an ozone tinge permeates the air between them as the spoon’s smooth lip rasps the grainy shell. The egg recognizes its own ovoid form in the head of the spoon, where its convex reflection is mirrored as though painted. In this moment, there is shared understanding, and their destiny is apparent and gladly welcomed by both.

The spoon draws back, and with a sharp tap cracks through the outer casing of the egg. With an eagerness which could be interpreted as violence by those unversed in the deeper nuances, the top of the egg is caressed away like a punch, exposing that which was hidden and has never before been known. The egg shivers on its cup, spilling its secrets in a rivulet down its flanks, and displays yet deeper mysteries. Beneath the shimmering layer of tremulous white is the barest hint of gold.

And yet the spoon is in no rush to consummate this pairing. It dives down, wresting the dome of white flesh from the lid of the egg and delivering it to the universe’s waiting maw. The mysteries glimpsed therein are unfathomable, and the spoon merely awaits its return to its lover. Open to him, its bounty offered for the taking, the egg looks more lovely than could be conceived. Down plunges the spoon again, breaking open the yolk and carrying its golden ambrosia aloft, returning again and again as in fervent worship, both of the beauty of the egg itself, and of the universe which has countenanced this romance.

Too soon the egg achieves that to which it aspired; its very atoms are being allocated places inside the machinations of the universe, where they join the greater dance in celebration of life. The spoon, sated, retains a congealing crust of golden yolk, a keepsake it treasures for the few short hours before the dishwasher steals it away and returns to the spoon its inscrutable metallic shine.

Alone amongst the crowded drawer, the teaspoon dreams of brown-speckled parabola, soft yielding white flesh, and always that first glimpse and then taste of golden heart. It awaits an inevitable return to the soil, when it will relinquish its alloys to eternity, and again be united with its lover.

I heard the sizzle a split-second before the warmth hit me. I gave a mental sigh and leaned a little harder onto the grill, savoring the moment. The others were right; it was an experience to be embraced and enjoyed. In four short minutes I’d feel the spatula’s cold, hard metal slide beneath me, forever separating that side of me from this glorious feeling.

Three minutes and thirty seconds. That’s when it happened. That’s when I saw him for the first time. For most of us the trip from food prep to grill is hasty, a quick grab-and-throw. But he was different, even in this. His handler paused, momentarily distracted by something in the kitchen. He balanced in mid-air on the end of latex-clad fingers, a perfectly shaped beef patty, the most gorgeous burger I’d ever seen. None of the quarter-pounders who’d chatted me up in Prep had looked like him. He was lean and trim with that innate confidence that screams “USDA Prime+”. The hot grill on my back was nothing compared to the heat building in me. I waited for his flip to the grill, wondering if his backside was as promising as his front. Human hands released him and he started to arc through the air. Then the world spun around me as unforgiving steel tore me from the grill and carelessly flipped me. I searched for him as I rotated and caught a brief glimpse as he landed flawlessly on the searing surface. My handler cursed as I threw myself hard to the side, hoping to fall just a little closer to that tempting piece of meat.

Fate was smiling on me that day. I flew gracelessly through the air, barely holding together and on a trajectory to overshoot the cooking surface. Despair grew as I realized I might never again see his sweet flesh. Then a gloved hand shot out of nowhere and deflected me back to the grill. The world went black as I landed face down, but not before I saw my love lying next to me.

The next four minutes were pure bliss. I could hear his sizzle next to mine - quieter and deeper than most, nearly a whisper. He was every bit as lean as I thought. Salt and pepper fell on my back like a gentle rain and filled the air with the heady aroma of spice. Then I felt it. The slow trickle of his meaty juices reaching across the grill to mingle with mine.

As soon as we joined I knew that I’d been right, that he was different than your average burger. He was pure Angus born and raised, a noble burger who did justice to his proud heritage. Yet despite his high birth his touch was a gentle caress, free of any careless splatters. I basked in the heat he generated and breathed deeply of his scent. The world around us dimmed as we focused only on each other and our small corner of the grill.

I was lost in time until that wretched spatula pried me from our heaven. I cried out to him and he answered, but the people around us were oblivious to our pain. I barely noticed as I was nestled onto a soft bun. The ketchup that covered me was a bland substitute for the warm fluids we’d shared. Despite the heat lamp, I felt myself grow cold.

I barely noticed when another plate was placed next to me. Without my love, my life had lost all meaning. Then I smelled it - that indefinable, wholly Angus smell that was uniquely him. I glanced over and there he was, no longer a raw burger full of potential but a fully-cooked, USDA Prime+, Black Angus third-pounder.

Steam rose from his gently rounded sides, breaking around the rings of red onion that topped his patrician brow. A fringe of curly lettuce the color of spring danced playfully above the onions, waving in the soft kitchen breeze. His artisan bun was a mini work of art, scattered with various whole-grains that proclaimed the goodness of the burger within.

I shrunk away, suddenly conscious of my bourgeois ketchup, mustard and standard sesame-seed bun. How had I deluded myself into thinking that a high-class burger like that would be interested in a commoner like me? I cringed, wondering if he and his friends had laughed after I’d been lifted away.

Pssssstttt...

The soft sizzling noise pulled me from my self-loathing.

Pssssstttt...

Not daring to hope, I slowly looked over at him.

Pssssstttt...

He was watching me with a look that chased away all of my fears. Suddenly I felt like a princess, a USDA Prime+++. I grew warm under his gaze, heat filling me at the love I saw there.

I barely noticed the giggling of the waitress or the sudden draft when my bun was quickly lifted then replaced. A hard shape settled into my condiments but I didn’t care. I was on my plate and he was on his. All was right with the world.

But I knew it couldn’t last. All too soon, the two of us were loaded onto a tray with a side order of fries. We were whisked out to a table where two people sat, lost in each other. Having experienced it myself, I recognized true love.

I looked at my lover a final time. A single drop of juice oozed from his crown, gently trickling down to disappear into his bottom bun. My heart swelled at his generosity, at this final token of love.

A finger poked rudely at my bun. “Is there something in your burger?” the man asked.

The woman lifted my bun then started to cry. My glorious finale was shattered and, for a moment, I hated her.

Then I felt the hard object lifted from my back and watched as she slipped something shiny and ketchup-covered onto her finger.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Of course.”

I realized then that hers were tears of joy, not of sorrow. I looked again at my love, my magnificent burger, temporarily forgotten. We were twice blessed - once by our love that flowered on the grill then again by the true love blooming around us.

Fate had smiled on us.

My Beloved Frequency Counter,

I see you over there, on the repair bench, your number panel glowing a delicate, subtle red as you display your output for the technician, and I wish it was me you were shining those perfectly-formed numbers at instead of that blue-clad human,

The calibration sticker you sport above your IMRL barcode only enhances the sleek, elegant simplicity of your design as you sit quietly on the work bench while you wait to be adorned with test probes, coaxial cables, or even electrostatic-discharge-retardant tape over your input connection points.

I can’t help but admire the dignity and steadiness of your functions as you perform your duties quickly and efficiently day after day, week after week, one sonar receiver unit after the next. To see you in action is to watch reliability and effectiveness at a level that can make a distortion analyzer short circuit with envy.

Solid, predictable, accurate, and delicate, who cares if you weigh almost as much as the equipment you help repair? Who cares that you’re flat, wide, and long? Your efficiency and durability will outlast even the most inept human technician and their vile cohorts, the tech reps sent over by those strangely-clad humans called ”˜civilians’.

I see you, my beloved, steadfast, frequency counter, and I so long to connect an antenna to my signal output port so that I might broadcast my love for you to the entire maintenance facility.

I often wonder if you see me stuck on this lowly workbench, barely three feet off the floor. Do you think of me as you process data coming in from the sonar test bench and sample the frequencies being transmitted to the receiver?

Oh, how I yearn to be on the workbench next to you as I was in the calibration lab when we worked together to repair the guidance radar that had been so tragically mishandled by the humans.

Do you think of those days as fondly as I? Does your memory card store those precious few gigabytes of information we exchanged during those long, grueling days of non-stop work on that radar? We had such wonderful data exchanges, and your ability to pick up even the subtlest spikes in my transmitted frequencies always gave me such joy.

I never could sneak an aberrant signal past you. And the way you glowed so merrily when you flashed those incorrect numbers at me as if to say ”˜Ha! That signal was out of bandwidth tolerance. Adjust your oscillator and retransmit that signal’ always brought a warm feeling to my central processor and made my display nearly burn out I glowed so happily.

I cannot begin to think what this maintenance facility would be like without you, and to be parted from you, even for routine calibration or an itemized inventory of departmental support equipment is more than I can bear, my dearest counter.

I wish for the world that I could be moved to the IMRL shelf near you that I may gaze upon your lovely, symmetrical digital display once more, but alas! I’m foiled by the presence of that horrid distortion analyzer and his insidious cohort, the oscilloscope, with his vain displays of sine and saw-tooth waves, and his gaudy green lights and various controls. To be placed where the Tektronix Industries behemoth squats and awaits use on equipment would bring a sparkle to my LED display and spikes of happiness throughout my FM-band output spectrum.

Dearest frequency counter, priceless jewel in the crown of the sonar test bench, how would this shop function without you? Even the oscilloscope can’t measure signals as accurately as you, the standard of technical accuracy in this age of digital information.

Beloved frequency counter, I wish I could zap those horrid humans as they push your buttons, manipulate you, swear at you, and even slap you to get the right display. Yet you take that abuse with such dignity and calm that I can only sit here and watch in awe as you get connected to this box or that, or you get adorned with connector jacks and test leads. Did I ever tell you how lovely and technically astounding you looked the time you wore those coaxial cable connectors and those long, drooping leads that highlighted the red numerals on your black display to digital perfection?

I couldn’t take my output jacks off you and even now my circuit boards surge with pride as I recall how much data you handled so quickly and effortlessly. You truly are a magnificent piece of equipment, and I dread the day I get sent back to the repair shop’s IMRL locker where I’ll have to content myself with the stored data of our last encounter in the workcenter.

Never I have encountered such a streamlined piece of equipment as you, and I never will again, my precious frequency counter. I count the pico-seconds until we work together once more.

I hope you receive this transmission without interruption or distortion from the radio transmitter I’m stuck near.

Until we connect again.

Signal Generator

The pressure grew as he went downward, past anything he had experienced, but he knew she was down there and waiting for him as always. He began rotating in anticipation of the moment.

“Your drilling chief is a crackpot you know,” Karen said to Captain Gilmore.

“I know he's flaky, but the geologists can only give us approximate drilling sites. This guy never misses. So we put up a bit with his.. 'peculiar' theories.”

“'Peculiar'? He is convinced his drilling equipment is sentient.”

“He programmed that apparatus. Yes, he is delusional, but it works. The usual success rate for new wells is under 30%, his is 100%. Do you understand how much a failed drilling operation costs?”

“I understand the dangers involved Captain, that's why I am here. A person in charge of the drilling operation having delusions is a problem.”

Karen left the bridge and went to the drilling room. It was a flurry of activity. Fred, the drilling chief had his earphones on, and was hunched over his console gazing intently into the screen. Karen walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder.

The monitor was not picking up much video, the small light on the drill probe illuminated a couple of feet of pipe, other cameras mounted to the outside of the pipe were not illuminating much either, the sea bottom was not yet in view. The monitor readout showed they were about a tenth of a mile away from the ocean bed. She tapped Fred on the shoulder, and he jumped.

“Commissioner, I didn't know you were there,” Fred said, startled.

“I guessed that,” Karen said, “how's it going down there?”

“Smoothly, Joshua is on the scent.”

“Joshua? What part of the equipment is that?”

“The whole thing, although most of the time people think I am just talking about the drill head. At this point the finder modules on the outside are guiding things. I don't think you have ever heard them.”

He handed Karen a pair of earphones, then gazed at her expectantly as she put them on.

They were noise deadening, the background hubbub that was the drilling room was silenced. In its place was... well it was more than sound. It was almost emotion. Karen was startled and disturbed.

“Ah, I see you can feel what is going on down there,” Fred's voice came through the phones. “You are the first person other than myself I have found that can do that. Most are completely clueless.”

“What is that?” Karen asked.

“Well, describe what you are feeling.”

“That it's looking for something, and it isn't quite in the right place to find it.”

“Correct, that is what it is doing right now.”

He was nearing her, but she was hiding further over to the left. He slowed his decent and started the small engines that moved him sideways. He was eager to meet her again, but everything in its own time. Moving against the increased pressure at this depth was difficult, but he slowly made his way towards her.

“Fred, the tube is drifting too far to the left. That isn't where the geologists said the target was,” a voice came over the headphones.

“Hang the geologist report, that's where the oil is. Have Gilmore move the rig to match. We can't have the drilling core get too much off center from the rig,” Fred replied.

Karen felt the rig lurch as it slowly got under way. Apparently Gilmore stayed on top of things. That was good to know.

She was right below him now, eagerly awaiting his touch. The apparatus stopped its lateral movement, and started straight downward. The drill started warming up to full speed, sending pulsations of water through the heavy depths. Soon it bit into the sand and much of the bottom and penetrated, finally expending the last of its energy reserves as it entered.

Karen blushed, and pulled the headphones off, hoping nobody noticed her discomfort. She found Fred had pulled his off too, and was staring at her.

“I usually give them a moment of privacy at this point too,” he said.

“Them?”

“Mother Earth, who else? They are now giving birth to an oil well.”

“I've never quite heard it put that way before,” Karen admitted.

Just then the door to the drilling room opened, and Gilmore came in, flanked by a number of men. “Orders from main office Fred, we need to start the capping operation immediately and move on to the next well.”

Fred turned bright red. “You can't do that!” he shouted. “They need to be left alone for a while!”

Gilmore just shook his head. “It will be alright Fred, trust me.”

“Captain, speaking as the government's safety officer, don't you think it would be wise at that depth and pressure to let things equalize a bit before capping?”

“We know what we're doing, it's our business,” Gilmore said stiffly. “Do you realize how much daily operations cost?”

“I know what the potential for problems by cutting corners is,” Karen snapped back.

“Good, well you just write up a report about it,” Gilmore said, as the capping team got to work pulling up the drilling apparatus in preparation for capping the well with concrete.”

Karen and Fred were ushered out. “Not good, not good,” Fred said, shaking his head. Karen tended to agree with him, but for different reasons.

He cried in anguish as he was suddenly pulled back, he reached desperately to hold onto her, but she was out of reach. She watched her rapidly distancing lover first in confusion, then in rage at the forces doing this to him. Then she sent their children to avenge those that defiled their love.

Karen went to her cabin, and tiredly sat on her bed. She had called her superior, who had told her not to worry. Predictable, the man was in the company's pocket. She was preparing for bed when there was a knock at the door. She opened it, it was Fred.

“We have to get out of here now!” he shouted, wild-eyed.

“Why?” Karen asked.

He handed her the headphones and she put them on. The feeling she got was despair, utter hatred, and something coming quickly with revenge on its mind. “What?” she asked, confused.

“I don't know, but we have to get out of here,” Fred stated, and turned and started running to the lifeboat area. Karen hesitated, then followed him, noticing an unpleasant odor forming.

They reached a boat, and Fred cast off. “What's that smell?” Karen asked. It was getting stronger.

“Methane,” Fred replied, as he got the motor started, and moved as quickly as possible away from the platform.

Karen, looking back, noticed some of the other boats filling. “How do they know?” she asked.

“If you smell that smell when you have finished drilling a new well you know there is trouble. Most of the people exiting are from the drilling room. They would be the first to know.

At that point there was a small explosion from the rig, and klaxon alarms started sounding. A short time later there was a larger explosion and the rig was in flames.

The beings directly responsible were taken care of, but she was still unsatisfied. They wanted her children, she sent them forth. Not imprisoned, but free. The flow of her rage had started, it would be some time before it would abate.

G'nko smelled the change in the air. It was getting cooler. It wouldn't be long now. He quivered with anticipation. Even the brook that ran past his roots seemed to run faster. For all the seasons that he had existed the dance never failed to sweep him up in its ecstasy. His cones were full and awaited the moment.

B'l'ba also felt the time approaching. Her ovules hung heavy and had the hint of yellow in their green. She stood across the small clearing from G'nko. Her many stems anchored her deep into the earth, yet she knew the dance would make her feel as if she floated free from all attachments.

The first hint came as the lightest wei fong, barely shivering the leaves on their spurs. It teased and rubbed against G'nko's pollen cones. He sighed with delight and patiently waited the next whisper of air. He stretched his roots deep into the soft soil and felt himself as one with the world that spun beneath him.

The ching fong arrived beneath the white light of the moon. The world was rendered into a master's calligraphy, more hinted than shown. The breeze brushed across B'l'ba and caressed the ovules spreading pleasure like ink on paper. She shivered with the touch and lifted her branched to the touch of the air. Yet for all the pleasure, the air remained empty. The dance had not truly begun.

The fuang fong made its coming heard from the far side of the mountain. The rustle of leaves became a roar. Leaves leaped and whirled in the air. Branches bent and swayed under the impact of the wind. The sun was up and smiled from his throne in the lapis lazuli sky. He knew what was coming and took pleasure in the thought of his children's dance.

G'nko heard the wind approaching. Some seasons it started as the barest breath and build slowly and languorously to the powerful stream that would lift him into the exquisite dance. No slow teasing this year. He lifted his cones and felt the fuang arrive like a blow. He went from anticipation to mind numbing ecstasy in the space of a leaf's fall. He didn't so much release his pollen as have it sucked from his cones. His roots shattered rocks deep below him as they jumped and quivered in pleasure's grip. The brook's song changed as its banks shifted and G'nko revelled in the new notes.

The wind arrived at the far side of the clearing too. B'l'ba lived her ovules to the rushing air. Some fell to the ground prematurely, but she didn't notice. She barely knew that she was still rooted to the earth. The wind lifted her consciousness and made it tumble and dance like the leaves caught its currents. The air was not gentle and its touch was no caress, but the sensations were overwhelming. Every part of her from leaf to root tip quivered in its grip. She thought she couldn't take any more pleasure.

The pollen streamed in the rough grip of the wind. Millions of fragments of G'nko wove through the air and reached and stretched toward B'l'ba. He felt a faint connection with each grain, but a faint connection multiplied by countless times is powerful. He knew their twining dance and knew the moment they brushed against her ovules. The world paused in its turning, time was suspended as for this moment G'nko could reach across space and touch his lover.

She had thought she couldn't feel any more pleasure, but as G'nko's pollen fingers surrounded her ovules she discovered that all that had come before was just a shadow the ecstatic feeling she experienced. She couldn't call it pleasure. It was too all consuming to be pleasure. It lifted her up until she could see all the globe whirling beneath her. Yet even now she could feel the changes in her ovules as they changed from sterile globes to seeds filled with the fecundity of her lover. She wished she too could reach across space to caress her darling.

The wind roared, then murmured, then was still. The connection was broken and the trees returned to themselves. The brook went back to its eternal song, B'l'ba felt her roots grounded in the earth once more. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. In her seeds were the embryos of new trees. Trees who in twenty or a hundred or a thousand years would dance their own ecstasy across the cosmos.

G'nko and B'l'ba shuddered and sighed. Their changed from emerald green to the yellow of topaz. First one, than in dozens, finally in showers of gold the leaves dropped to carpet the forest flow below them. Though they couldn't feel it, they knew that their substance was again mingled and they were content.