Break 004: Wrong World/Refuge Titelbild

Break 004: Wrong World/Refuge

Break 004: Wrong World/Refuge

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 On this episode of The Break, we open with “Wrong World,” a new original story by New York Times bestselling author of the Warm Bodies series Isaac Marion followed by the exclusive premiere of refuge, the debut album from Seattle art-rock duo quand il pleut.Wrong Worldby Isaac MarionBeth sits alone in a cafe she’s never seen before, sipping pale yellow coffee that tastes like cherry juice, watching impossibly fat rain hammer the pink pavement, diligently straining to learn about this world she’s fallen into.Her laptop sits in front of her, but the internet is still too overwhelming. It was overwhelming even where she came from, but here, without any context to shape its flood of information, it might as well be pure noise. She prefers to learn slowly by looking and listening, a few revelations at a time.“Did you hear about Maxico?”“Yeah but I don’t get it. Why would Maxico attack Colomdia? Weren’t they allies in the Pedro Bank war?”“All about that lithium, baby.”Beth finds eavesdropping to be the most manageable method. A drip feed of information slow enough to seep in without drowning her. The best way to learn a language is immersion. She struggled with Spanish for years until she spent a few months in Mexico—which is apparently now “Maxico,” which has apparently always been “Maxico” and she somehow had it wrong her whole life. So she immerses herself in what used to be her own language, her own country and culture, now altered in so many ways she might as well start from scratch here in the Unified States of Anerica.“Sorry, do you have cow’s milk by any chance? I’m allergic to dandelion.”“He says he’s more of a cat person, doesn’t really like raccoons, is that a red flag?”“Should we do Greenland for winter break? Soak up some darkness?”She scribbles lists in her journal of things she doesn’t understand, things to research further when she’s a little less overwhelmed. But some questions resist research. The social norms and unwritten laws.“Of course they’re closing the beach, Beth, four people drowned this year.”“What do you mean ‘why are we freaking out’? Malaysia put trade sanctions on Brunei, it’s called ‘global conflict,’ Beth.”“You’re going on a walk without a sunscreen rubdown? That’s ten minutes closer to cancer.”Sometimes the facts are familiar and it’s only the context that’s shifted, the mutual understanding of normality which has suddenly ceased to be mutual. Other times it’s the facts themselves, a sudden onslaught of unbelievable statistics and rattling confrontations.“You kissed someone without a mouth screen? That’s a one in four chance of syphilis, Beth.”“Beth, you should never stop for gas alone, the average gas station has a hundred kidnappings per year.”“You really don’t have asteroid insurance? We get two hundred house strikes a month in this state.”That can’t be right, she finds herself saying again and again. She’s never heard of that. She could have sworn.But she’s never completely sure. Did everything really change, or was she always wrong? Had she been misspelling “Anerica” all her life? Undervaluing all the dangers around her? Was she simply that uninformed?“Did you see what Mackie tweeted about AOP?”“Oh my God, so messed up, right? That one’s going straight to the Pound.”Beth doesn’t recognize most of the names she overhears. Politicians? Pop stars? Both? A quick google would slot them into the puzzle, but it’s a puzzle with no edges, ever-expanding—fill in one section and another one spills off the table.“Is the Pound even still a thing?”“It is as long as Tertia’s on the Desiccant train.”“Ha! Fair enough.”Sometimes the references are so thick, Beth can’t follow a single word. Is it just her age? Did she fall into a foreign universe the moment she turned forty? She sneaks a glance at the two women chattering incomprehensibly at the nearby table. Their eyes are shrewd, their conversation sharp, their rejoinders instantaneous, everything about them snaps—and they’re in their mid-fifties.No, this is not just aging. This is not the natural withering of her cultural umbilicus as she drifts out from the heartbeat of humanity. Something happened. This is not the same world. She looks out the window for her daily confirmation: those surreal clouds branching across the sky in complex fractal patterns, dumping hurricane torrents of rain that no one but her finds notable.“Seems pretty typical for Febrewary,” the barista replies when she remarks on it—that unexpected voicing of the silent “r,” and the usual confused squint. “The street pumps are keeping up with it, but I hope you brought your body bubble!”Beth did not bring a body bubble. But she spots dozens of people who did–calm and dry inside clear plastic umbrellas that extend all the way to their feet– as she sprints across the parking lot, screaming ...
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