Dawson Filter as He Relates to Projectors

“Lo! I have been blinded!” Sylvester Denny noted. Shortly after he issued this remark, his line of vision lit up with things; revealing that he was strapped to a dreadfully fancy office chair facing a white, plastic wall.

He craned his upper torso to see man of the janitorial sort standing by a light’s switch. “Oh, sorry and stuff.” The man said, “I must’ve bumped the projector.” He pressed a button marked with green, in order to close the projector of which he spoke’s circuit. Dawson Filter, Babe Listowel, and Twelve-Anne Stradivari’s respective images appeared on the wall like a bug in a rug. “There. There are your friends. You can watch them again now.”

“Sorry, so my life is a lie, then?” Asked Sylvester, for the first time in years.

“Not even as such!” Said the cleanliness aficionado, “To find out just what your life has been up until this point, just watch this short informational video.” He extended one of his own personal arms; and pulled a trolley of television sets to the side of his body corresponding to the aforementioned arm, pressing a dark, dark, button on the leftmost television via the rightmost finger on his unused hand. Its screen lit up.

“Hello,” said a voice within the set, “in 1989, columnist Lexter ‘middle name removed for privacy reasons’ Fox noted that the fabric of space and time seemed to be having some difficulties with a jug of grapefruit juice he’d set out to cool on his kitchen table. When he turned on his radio to investigate, he found that there was a considerable amount of interference in the sounds. He then decided to adapt a nearby fax machine to be able to receive radio waves; and out of the fax machine came a printed copy of the heartwarming story of a young girl finding a puppy and naming it John, which inspires the girl’s mother to reconnect with her former husband, also named John. Mr. Fox found out the following afternoon that this was exactly the situation of his apartment neighbour, Rose Welton. Four afternoons later, they founded Foxy Research Centre together, as an unofficial subdivision of the Secret Obituaries. They situated their main office six feet from Lexter’s desk for the first month so that he could keep his columnist job, until they moved the branch out to a well-furnished shack with a large receiver perched atop its roof pointing into the expanse of space. Upon becoming tired of staring at a largely inactive fax machine, Rose adopted several newborn humans; and strapped them into chairs facing projectors, with life support systems hooked up to the children to keep it all legal. The projectors displayed what was captured by cameras connected to humanoid robots, which the orphans controlled with transmitters connected to their brains. Rose Welton converted the fax machine further, so that the converted radio signal would be written in the bottom right corner of the projection. This allows the orphans to live perfectly normal lives, and observe the phenomenon of literary waves. Once they turn thirty years old, they are to be released; and asked for a synopsis of what they read, to be published in several reputable scientific journals.”

The janitor switched the television off, and tried to think of something to say to remove the look of shock from Sylvester’s otherwise perfectly normal face. “If you’re wondering why you haven’t heard of this before, it’s because literary waves only range from 67.834213 kHz to 67.834217 kHz.”  

“Thanks, that really helps.”

Sylvester saw Dawson Filter waving to him on the projector.

“Sylvester?” Dawson asked, expecting an response of ‘yes?’, or some other excuse for an answer. “Are you sane? Whose voice is in your mouth?”

Sylvester leaned into a microphone placed in front of his chair. “A janitor’s and a television’s.”

He went on to explain as best he could what he’d learned from the television’s sounds. He said that he hoped it was possible for the Quest Committee to find him, and see him in the flesh for the first time.

Dawson Filter smiled and lied, “Wonderfully possible.”


12 thoughts on “Dawson Filter as He Relates to Projectors”

  1. Fun fact: if you’re commenting on this, you can fill out you email as any combination of letters, numbers, spaces, ‘n’ symbols you like. What you write there is how the picture industry determines what to use as your profile picture. I chose “1?”2gipvj0\?+sk&ddu nddfgjf () ‘.UBN $5fnnn” because it looks like a fat, sad horse.


      1. What?!!! Why did I get the same one as you?

        Maybe it’s the default pic for a non-email address (I used “constipationofbiblicalproportionsampersand900chubbachubbawhoopwhoopticklemyuvulacough8”, or something like that).

        Let me experiment…


        1. This is a test. It is only a test. If it was…nevermind. I just want to see my symbol.


          was my email address.


      2. I am horrified by my use of “your” instead of “you’re”. So embarassing. As a doctor, I have crusaded against such egregious affronts to the Inglish language. World, please accept my half-hearted apology. I’m “sorry”.


        Dr. Franklin Berenstain, D.F.


    1. Offering to clarify potentially confusing writings is a sign of a lack of confidence. Hold your head high, look down your nose at your readers, and know that if they don’t understand it’s because they have not half your wit!

      Show no weakness! Never clarify!

      With breath smelling of mustard gas and roses,

      Dead Kurt Vonnegut


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