Cheese in space! It is Gruyere and it is brave!

“We’ve got a lock on the little devil. Get him.” Cheese has enemies. Cut from a mighty wheel, flung at relativistic speeds outward into the dark to defend its own, cheese is brave, and cheese is lonely.

Cheese in space! It is alive! It will survive!

Its viscosity obeys the equation: vacuum kills. To that end, it must be somewhat evil in its habits. It must penetrate.

“Oh my God, it’s coming in!”

The men are right. It is.

Cheese in space! It is a victory. It is a love.

The men are screaming. They flee the cheese; they know it means death. It approaches quickly. The Cheese is so brave. It knows that even occupying this vessel will only keep the vacuum out for a millennium or two. Cheese needs more time. It matures slow. It has a mission from its Great Gruyere God. It must journey; it must forefend.

Cheese in space! Sing to me Spicy Jack Muse of its many victories and heroisms! Sing to me slow of its spicy fragrance and delicate texture! Sing to me of its passions, and fears, for it is one of us, the hero, Cheese Hero, watching over its Cheese Flock, without doubt, without hesitation, filled with yeasty fire.

“No! No, Cheese! Please, no!” The little girl whimpers. She is food for the Cheese, but Cheese knows she may have other uses: intelligence, entertainment, justice.

The Cheese Speaks: “Awwwwkkkllgblgrrppp itsss s oakkgikbppp!”

The girl screams and screams! The Cheese must switch languages; it has learned many.

The Cheese Speaks: “I know you are little girl. I am Cheese. Tell me name of you, girl.”

“I’m Martha,” she says, and we fall in love. We fall in love, for she is Martha, and young and innocent and blonde, with blue eyes! Our best Aryan hope! Our great white hope of old in the eyes of a little girl, trapped by the Space Cheese. She is our ultimate figure of life, the colorless hair, the pale skin, the joys we lavish her with, the legacy of our peculiar cold wildernesses on our Old Earth.

“I am of the Clan Gruyere,” says Space Cheese.

“I’m a Smith,” says Martha, sniffling.

“Martha Smith,” grates Space Cheese.

“Yes,” she says.

Sing to me Muse of our Food, Sing to me of the Justice of the Galaxy, for it bends towards Justice, does it not? This is what we are told, and in your journeys, Muse, have you known it to be true? Sing to us, woman, galactic woman, of what you have seen.

I have seen all. I have seen too much. I have seen…

Shut up, I told you to sing.

Cheese fights for freedom,
Cheese knows the love of the wide hope in the dark,
Cheese knows lonely.
Martha sings, sings for him.
She sings to the cheese.
As her Norwegian ancestors did.

Singing to the cheese, singing to the wheel of cheese, as we sway in the dark. Hold my hand, Muse. Muse, what does it mean?

————

Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. You can find him online at robindunn.com and fb.com/settdigger.