The Associated Content Cave Collective

In obsure caves, our fact filled heroine discovers the lifestyle of Associated Content writers is filled with play, love, heroism, and high drama. In the twist ending, she realizes sharing of knowledge has more power and suspense than she had imagined.

The crackling sound coming from within the hollows of the rock formations was what first captured my attention. I had thought I had traveled far enough away from human civilization that I would be alone for awhile. The hair on the back of my head stood up with the crackling sound, and though I was hesitant, I couldn’t help but want to see who was inside the Pens. I had been told they were called that by the few people who knew where they were because the Native Americans had kept their horses in the formations like stables, next to the more cave like formations where they had lived themselves, hiding out from the white man. I could tell there was a well-used path to the formations, even fresh tire tracks, and perhaps a car hidden around the corner. I got out of my own grease car and took a chance. I went inside.

I at first heard shuffling, saw lights inside in the distance, coming from around a bend, and what I thought was the sound of a bird, or a young child. Then, the light seemed to be blown out. It was a large candle, apparently, and smoke trailed through the caves. The child’s voice was muffled suddenly, as by a hand, and there was stillness. “Hello? Hello?” I called.

Why this urge to explore, when at any moment someone could jump out at me? No one was around for miles. Anything could happen. What was it that drew me? My own outlaw nature, hiding from the civilization of illusions and deceptions, brainwashing and distraction. I was fascinated by life as a whole, by play, by costumery, by animals, and plants. I loved to eat raw food in zany restaurants and watch artistic foreign films with my friends. I loved to create art, short comedy films, poetry, and fun. But I also had a thirst for knowledge of things that society often overlooked. I had learned too much. I felt isolated by my own studiousness, my own poring over well-documented research material by brilliant writers. But not enough people in the mainstream had discovered this knowledge, as it had been kept hidden by the mass media, which relentlessly kept other sources in check as much as they could. I was dismayed. I was overwhelmed by my own insights and discoveries. I was unsure what to do with them. And thus, I had sought out the solace of nature for a while, away from the masses, bringing all I would need to camp happily. Had I found others who may have done so as well.

“Who is it?” I was startled to hear an answer after the long wait. The voice was male but pretending to be female. American pretending to be British. The falsetto made me laugh inside, but I wanted to make sure this person meant to be funny first.

“It’s me, deah,” I said. “Is it tea time yet? I brought the scones.” And indeed I had. Maybe it was my British ancestry that came out with my love of scones.

“Oh, la di da. Scones, then, is it? Well come on in!” The falsetto had become even more exaggerated, if that was possible. The candles were relit, and the child’s mouth sounded as if it were uncovered mid laugh.

Three adult faces appeared around the corner of the cave interiors, lit by the candles from a theatrical angle. “It’s not like it’s ours. Welcome to your pleasure cave.” This was a young woman, and I was immediately tingly inside at hearing her words, feeling the air scintillate around me, electricity between her and me, though I myself was a woman, and rarely noticed such electricity with another of my own gender. She was slender, wearing a well fitting gunny sack with the advertising on it, though for what, I couldn’t make out in the dim light, as she began to emerge from around the bend. I could see her tan legs, the muscles strong, as the sack dress was quite short. Her voice was husky, filled with a sense of slightly decadent acceptance of her senses and of enjoyment of them. She grinned at me. “I hope you brought butter. I’ve been craving it. It makes scones so much more moist going down.” I gulped.

The little boy came out of the shadows and held onto her leg, looking at me, very curious to see a new face.

“Oh, put on the tea kettle, deah,” said the falsetto. His face was angular, wide around the eyes, but the chin extended by a goatee. He held one of the candles under it to add to the dramatic effect, and exaggerated his angularity with a bizarre smile.

“Alrighty, then.” The third was a man around the same age as the other two characters, probably somewhere between 25 and 35. His hair, which was straight, parted in the center, and hanging thickly to mid neck, had a fortunate effect from the sunshine, the outer layers attaining a rich, buttery sheen, glowing. Obviously, these folks knew how to keep clean and groomed. And they didn’t hide in the cave wasting away, cutting up intruders into nibblets.

I went back to my grease car parked outside and grabbed the scones, and re-entered. “You do have quite the place, here.”

“No, we do,” said the woman, who introduced herself as Xeno the Stranger from Within. She bowed when she said it with the flourish of someone familiar with using her body as a tool of entertainment for crowds. I couldn’t tell how much she was putting me on, but I felt the tug in her voice asking me to stay on. To claim my caves. I wanted to. Not only because of her, but the other two just as much. They drew me in.

They heated the water with a camp stove, and slowly, the falsetto of the tea party wore off, and they told me what they were up to. “We all have wireless cards for our laptops.” They pointed to their workstations, spread out amongst colorful pillows and Persian throw rugs, and deep red tapestries molded to the low, curving walls. “This is where we work. We write for Associated Content. We didn’t want any distractions, cause it takes a long time to write these things, and you really want to write as much as you can, given a chance like this. Thousands of people read what we write. We get paid enough considering we don’t pay rent, and only drive into town once every couple weeks for supplies. We don’t have to buy work clothes, pay for entertainment, heating bills. And we can write what we really care about telling the world. And the world listens. No long wait. When something happens, and believe me, we keep up with that over the net, we can write about it and get it out to people within a few days. Not bad, mate.” There was some hint of obsession, but the kind you see in movies, in which the hero’s determination drives the plot, a sense of urgency to inform the world of a hidden agenda dragging the audience with him through his quest. But it was their sense of luxurious humor, and vivid warm tans from the clean air, that kept it balanced.
I decided to sign up myself for Associated Content, and started writing, as, luckily, I had a wireless card as well. I didn’t know where it would lead, but I knew I wanted to at least spend the night there. And it was the perfect chance to do something with the overwhelming knowledge I had banging about in my head.

Within the course of several hours, I wrote about archeological finds such as Neanderthalls found side by side with modern man. I was inspired by cave living. I wrote about how Plato’s cave, and how we are only imagining life around is is the true reality, and how Tantra Yoga is one method of plunging beyond that illusion into direct experience of enlightenment. I wrote about how Tantra Yoga was supposedly taught to humans by the nagas, who were demonic, reptilian, shapesifting hybrids dwelling in caves, ruled over by Shiva.

I wrote that for over 100 years, people thought Neanderthal man was stooped over like an ape, but that was because the specimens they found had arthritis, and rickets.

I wrote about how there are many pictures in caves of dinosaurs fighting men. There is, for example, a set of cave paintings in the Gorozomzi Hills, near Salisbury, with a brontosaurus that scientists believed went extinct millions of years before people were around at all. The bushmen who painted these images however, were not into fantasy, but painted what was around them in real life. The bushmen lived in Rhodesia from 1500 B.C. until just 200 years ago. I wrote about how human footprints had been found side by side with dinosaurs’.
I wrote about how the Sankrit texts like the Ramayana describe ancient flying machines descending on earth and doing battle. The illustrations are not unlike space ships or helicopters. I wrote and wrote, happy to find my niche. I felt at home with the other cave dwellers.
The man with the angular face was named Ariyam. We grew close more easily than the others. It seemed more natural, and we sometimes talked alone, going for short walks in the sun to stretch. He looked at me mysteriously and said,”I hope this goes OK for you.” His face, which had already become so familiar to me, as if from a series of dreams, looked troubled. “I don’t want to say too much just yet, butâÂ?¦” I gave him a hug. What could it be, I wondered. His waist was slim and tight, when I put my art around it. I didn’t want to let it go. I could feel the warmth of it through his shirt. I slid my hand along it just briefly, experiencing every moment double time. I put my hands’ nerve endings on high alert. They served me well. The feeling of the muscles which I could subtly detect through his shirt was heightened. We smiled at each other, and I let go.
It was when I was back at work at my computer that I suspected what he had been talking about. Suddenly, our computers shut down, and the candles went out. We heard the sound of-well, what? Something like jets going beyond the sound barrier, but not quite. Something like thunder, but it was a clear evening. Something like the screeching of some strange bird. I raised my right palm towards the sound and sent out naturally produced psychotronic death rays to keep whatever it was at bay. We were under attack, and there was no time to think. I put all my strength into my palm, the energy coming out of the center of it. It was only when the sound ceased and the computers came back on that I thought about what I was doing. Boy did I feel ridiculous. I realized I had even been making a strange little, piercing nasal sound as part of my weaponry. What the hell had I been doing? God, they must think I’m insane.
“It’s them,” said Ariyam. “That happens.” We lit the candles again, and things seemed somewhat normal, as if it had been a dream. “I think it’s the power of concentrated knowledge sharing. I don’t know why, exactly. Nothing has ever actually hurt us. I don’t even get scared any more, myself.”

Dylan, the man with the buttery highlights in his hair, looked at him quickly out of the corner of his eye. His face was must softer and rounder than Ariyam’s. His cheeks rosier, his bearing heartier. He was a strapping lad, and I wanted to get to know him better. But somehow, Ariyam and I had bonded more effortlessly.

We all took a break from writing. We were like the movie heros once again. Fighting against some strange forces to spread knowledge, insights, and generally interesting stuff. We were aided by the impermeable strength of Associated Content. We knew they were solid and no harm would come to them through our efforts. We would take the sounds directed at us alone. We could do it. Right?

“Have you ever asked any outsiders about that sound?” I questioned. I was already an insider and everyone else an outsider, and I had only been there for several hours. It was our little playfort, our pleasure cave, our mini warren of writing excellence.

“No, not really. I thought it only happened when the chick or I were writing, actually. It never happens when it’s just Dylan.”

Oh. What if he and Xeno were a couple. Exclusive. That would leave the obvious attraction only Dylan that I could follow up with, and somehow, he seemed foreign to me. I wasn’t sure why. If it were just him, I would feel unfulfilled. I wanted them all. I didn’t expect us all to be lovers. I just wanted closeness, some kind of intimacy where I could express the passion of how drawn to them I was. I didn’t want to be left out.

There was a boom box in another small cave, and Xeno invited me to go in there with her. Could it have been the boom box malfunctioning and making that racket? I started to feel normal again. Yes, that must have been what it was. Maybe the batteries were going bad in that moisture. Her little son who had been listening to it had fallen asleep in front of it, his plump cheeks pressed against it. She carefully pulled it out and let his face fall to a more comfortable angle on the soft rug. The music was lively, and we carried it into what seemed like the obvious living room of the place, and started dancing together. I was envious of how smoothly she moved, how at home she was in her movements, how knowing her grin was, and she took my hands and held them momentarily while we danced. It was almost more than I could take. I became self conscious, aware of how my mouth was crooked, and one eyelid was twitching. But I tried to let my muscles in my face relax and let me feelings show as easily as she did. I ended up looking down and turning away, and then facing her again, with new resolve, now and then, while letting the music play with me. “Are you married to Ariyam?” I asked point blank.

“Oh, no one wants to be married. Anyone gets tired of a person after awhile. People want new experiences,” she said, a bit of gravel in her voice, as if she had seen the inside of many a smokey bar. It was as if I were silly for not knowing that human trait.. Her dancing was so graceful, I kept picturing her dancing as an arialist, on a ring in the air, wearing a tutu. I wondered what her history was.

Her sentence annoyed me and I didn’t know why. I got worse. I also didn’t believe in marriage. Strange convention. The majority of standard marriages failed. Swingers apparently, statistically, had only a 3 percent divorce rate. Obviously human nature as a whole rebelled against constraint. But it made me want her more. Longer. Forever.

“I don’t know. Maybe with some people there is enough depth that you could explore that relationship for the rest of your life, if you really pushed the limits together. Explored the outer realms of human nature together. Created something amazing togetherâÂ?¦.I don’t knowâÂ?¦”

She smiled, her lips growing thin therefore in the most fetching way. I wanted to grab her and hold her. I wanted to write for Associated Content in this cave forever.

Suddenly, the sound started up again and the computers went silent. My right palm started to go up, but I felt too exposed, as the candles were still going. “Oh, sorry, it was me for sure this time. I was the only one writing,” said Ariyam. “Shows the power of the written word with an open minded audience, doesn’t it?” Did it? Was it really that obvious? It could just be military jets practicing. I went outside. There was nothing there. They could be under some new invisibility cloak. Hmm.

“Could it be the spirits of people who lived in the pens and caves before?” I asked. Ariyam nodded. “Could be. Some kind of haunting.”

Dylan came out with us, and he and I stayed out in the twilight as Aryiam went back inside to put on some more tea. Something soothing. Chamomile.

I looked at his face. He seemed calm. “Did this happen from the beginning?”

“At first, I was the only one here doing this. It never happened. I have a good relationship with those things. Those-spirits.” And I realized that he was the stable one, the reasonable one, the most quiet and at home here. Everything had been fine when it was just him.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I rocked the boat, made it any worse by writing too. That’s cool you have a harmonious flow with whatever that sound thing is.” He emanated warmth, aliveness, but with a kind of distant poise. I wanted to break through that barrier. I didn’t want to stand too close to him. But I felt a kinship possible, as I realized he had some way of communicating and vibing with the mysterious things.

When we went back in, Ariyam had poured us tea. We used it as fuel as we went back to work. We were enlivening the discussions of truths, making short stories, playing with language, relating some amazing experiences. We had each other. We had it all.

And then it was a certain look Dylan gave me out of the corner of his eye that shook me. It gave me the shivers. It wasn’t that he was harmonious and balanced. Of course. He never was threatened by the mysterious attackers because he had a special relationship with them. From the beginning. Because in some way I had yet to comprehend, he was one of them. It wasn’t spirits of people who had lived there in the past. It was some other species who had lived in the caves. Non human, probably shape shifting reptilians. Probably not very gentle. And it wasn’t their their ghosts, either. They still lived there. They were not of this dimension.

“Go ahead; write about it,” he said, nodding towards my computer. I knew staying there may have consequences I couldn’t imagine. But I was compelled. I wrote about it. And it wrote me.