Precambrian Sleuth, or, Murder by Atmosphere
Dreamed 2013/6/2 by Chris Wayan
My housemate's furious and hurt. The board of the nonprofit he works for as treasurer and accountant just censured him! He's been nearly volunteering; they pay just $10,000 a year. To replace him, they'd have to triple that. I urge him "Quit! Why endure both stress and low pay? Even a half-time job at the local minimum wage would pay better--with fewer insults." But he clings to the familiar, no matter how poisonous the atmosphere gets.
Then my sister Miriel calls from Santa Cruz. Her NVC [Non-Violent Communication] group begged her to return. She did, and they promptly ganged up on her again, blamed her for all the group's problems. She's endured escalating bullshit for months now. But today, she walked out for good! High time, too.
I just wish the other lobster in the pot would admit they're slow-cooking him, and crawl out of gossip stew.
At last the timepod glides to a halt. All out: Precambrian Station.
Stark rubble out sealed ports, lunar gray--land and air unborn.
Earth's predawn. Anoxic algae age! I've come for the investigation
Of a fatal accident--if chance it was. The staff's been here so long
They take for granted their bizarre eon--testify for hours before
Isn't just dead--deadly! For these early stromes dabble in photosyntheses!
Chlorophyll's big Dar win; this year's champs spew sulfides, cyanides, more.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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