Bury

2010-08-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

Snow

Drifts into my ears,

Clouding through wires

In flakes and flurries,

Burying me

In freezing sound.

Spellbound. Blind.

A soundtrack

For a storm, a silence

Deeper than my words and

Your pity.

Something felt in the chest,

Clamping, constricting.

A pleasant nausea.

Because

Some songs

Sound like snow.

Dark, ambient,

Starkly

Anxious

Winds,

Deep and heavy.

A perfect future.

A lost future.

Shimmering, glacial

Hypothermia

Clouding through wires,

Burying me.

The Bomb

2010-08-20T10:19:00.000-07:00

Corroded apartment doors glistened with an envelope-thin coating of bubbling resin, insect wings and clumps of grey dust frozen into it by the intense cold. One stood ajar, a rotting slab of wood amidst rotting slabs of wood, the aisles of deadbolts and various homemade locks oddly framing it as it protruded from the wall. A freezing gust of air swept through the rotten hallway, entering the doorjamb with a raw, glacial breath. Empty sounds of tinkering emanated from the room to which the door led, suspended in the gloom of the apartment complex.
A figure stood in that room, outlined in black, his back turned to the door. A Palladian window rose before him, spiderwebbed with cracks, displaying an array of slouching high-rises bent in various abnormal directions, frames warped and melting. Scaffolding from projects no one planned on completing draped the occasional building, shrouding the skyline in a network of metallic webs.
A workbench stretched from grey wall to grey wall, surrounded by rotted-off shards of itself, ground into the carpet and stamped into a fine mist of splinters. Laden with mechanical paraphernalia, the table sagged slightly under the weight of a boxy device snaked over with wires and nodules. The figure hunched over the device, snipping, straightening, improving. As he labored, fingers trembling anxiously, he would clench his fists sometimes, white-knuckled under tattered construction gloves.
He paused, silent. His creation lay vulnerable before him, passionate and terrible, a coilwork of clock faces and dynamite. The frozen sun dimmed with the promise of nighttime, shadowing the room in ambient light. In the gloom of the dusty golden air, the figure shrugged off his coat. It slipped to the floor with a whisper.
Grasping the device with both hands, he cradled it softly in one arm while the other clawed for a threadbare strap on the table. He wound it around himself, lovingly, looping it through the device and across his chest, ribcage protruding like sawblades. Pale and freezing, his body shuddered irregularly as he fastened the straps, tying the device onto himself. He breathed, a stifled, neurotic panting in the deadened silence of the apartment. And then, with that release of stagnant breath, a smoking, iridescent breath that suspended the cold of isolation in a single foggy plume, the figure donned his coat, sweeping through the stained doorway and down the hall, humming tunelessly.
He cautiously climbed down the stairs, a testament to the precious cargo cloistered away inside his coat. It moved with him, the coils shuffling against his skin with every step downward. Water damage plagued the walls and parts of the steps had rotted out into the spaceless black hole beneath the stairwell. He avoided these areas.
A buckle on his coat snagged on the splintered walls, but he marched on, immersed in thought. The archway entrance to the complex stood only a few steps away, grainy and chapped, anxiously awaiting his farewell. He ground his teeth to remain silent. Upon exiting, the noonday sun stung his eyes with stale, sepia brightness as it clung to the horizon, silhouetting the cluttered skyline in a pale mist of light.
The street echoed with his footsteps. Two sentinels, posted on the deserted street corner, glanced with suspicion at his dark-clad figure, their eyes narrowing invisibly behind blue-tinted sungoggles. His hurried, resolved pace in the chilly silence stirred their interest. They conversed and started toward him, distrust staining every step.
He fled. The seared streets rushed beneath him, a cacophony of blood and pain ringing through their stones, stinging his feet through the rubber of his bootsoles. As he ran, the towering buildings screamed with dereliction, flooded with victims of a wordless, goalless cause. The frosty smog stung his face and electrified him.
The sentries flew after him in a galeforce wind. Weapons of some sort emerged and they began to fire heavily at him. He ducked into the nearest alleyway, last year's newspaper ash whirling around his feet as he skidded around the corner. The bulletspray continued raining toward him just out of reach of his coat, now fluttering unfastened, exposing his chest. The device hung in full view around him, radiant and pulsing with fiery expectancy. He clutched it and ran faster, gasping, wheezing, his throat bleeding from the cold. Alleyway turned into alleyway, shapes of catwalks appeared and disappeared, mirrored twice over in the tears pooling in his eyes.
He ran on, exhausted and nauseous. Memories surfaced, ash-pale and tortuous. Things children's eyes should never see, what the ones he lacked the maturity to discern as wicked burned into his formative retinas. Their command central surfaced in his vision not twenty feet away. A place to rule from and propagate fear like a plague.
Sparkling granite steps led to a columned monolith of a structure, dimmed blue in the thick evening light. Lamplight swelled the air into a pregnant silence, punctuated by his footsteps as he dashed to the entrance. No gate barred the building, primarily because no one dared approach it. A single door stood between him and his aim. Momentum propelled him to the front, adrenaline broke open the door on contact, and he stood sweating in a greatroom peppered with men in housecoats with bureaucratic facial hair and incredulous expressions.
Baffled, they rose slowly from their velvet armchairs, arms out in protest, pleading with him. Silken curtains adorned the windows, falling to the floor in waterfalls of red and pooling on the imported cypress flooring. It glistened starkly, the Asian droplights touching it gently with ambient lighting. Brandy bottles adorned the shelves.
The device fluttered, ticking against him, moving rhythmically in a waltz befitting this palace of indulgence and debauchery. Peeling paint and starving children existed outside of this place, but not in it, just as the ruling class existed here and not outside in the invasive cold, living to hide from the ones in power.
He raised his arms in worship. Homage to the future and what it would bring devoid of the ones sitting there, in that room.
As the pursuing sentries rushed in, the ticking sound halted abruptly as the timer hit zero. Sentries and housecoated men flinched, expecting the worst, of clothes and hair being seared off within the second. That second stretched into two, and two into three. The bomb lay silent on his chest, hibernating. He looked downward, incredulous. It was a dud.
One by one the ruling class began to smile. Sharp, stinging smiles, such that would turn one's heart to stone.

As the machine gun barrels slowly rose to point directly at him, deep inside the bomb, in the mechanisms so carefully cut by hand, so carefully wired together, something sparked.

From far off, a small orange flame dotted the skyline.

21st Century Parasite

Bury

The Bomb