Pollution is an artist
and poison is a poet
Death is the brightest of colors
Noise is the sweetest song
Pollution won a grant
and poison won a fellowship
We're meeting for drinks downtown
to celebrate their well-deserved
recognition.
Giving in wasn't an option. To surrender to that demon wench, horrifically taunting him with all the glories of his gender-bent body that he knew made him sick, was out of the question. He'd sooner stab himself, or worse, let his younger brother best him in their next bout.
He could not deny, however, he was getting cornered into a difficult position. There was something off about the way the chimera chose to come at him this time. Aside from letting watermelons of bosoms bounce and burst out of his vest at him.
He inwardly shuddered. That had to be...
It wasn't entirely fair. It wasn't.
You knew it wasn't.
See that one in the back? She's yours, right?
The one barely visible?
The safe one.
That one is yours.
The one in front? Not yours, not really. Not the same way.
Polka dots. Something Sandra bought her the last time you...well, the last time.
Sandra. She's not your either, not anymore. In the end, she wasn't safe. Not really.
It's the eyes, isn't it? The eyes that get you. Maybe the sun - the way it seems to be an answering presence, a judging presence. Judging...her? You? But not...
When I was 12, I went to sea. It was a hard life, scurrying around on the ship, hiding from the sailors. I was a stowaway, you see. I wanted to see what it was like. My dad was the ship's cook. He knew I was on board. He was risking everything by not reporting me.
We used to play hide and seek, late at night. My favourite spot was in the engine room, on top of the engine itself. It was bloody dangerous up there. I won every time I went there, because my dad never wanted to climb...
I sat on the bench in the park. Breathed in the air. Smelled the ash and dust.
It was quiet here, beneath the shade of the building, and it wasn't something so surprising. The city was empty. I was alone.
They say that death sends you somewhere either utterly amazing or utterly horrible. I can say that death brings you to neither. I died a while ago, though time seems to freeze here. I wondered where I was, for a while, and where everyone else was. But this place, this quiet, lonely place, is now my home.
I lean back...
He sat in the corner with that look on his face, that look that said, I am about to speak.
"Let's get up and go."
I felt so sick, my joints ached, my mouth felt like it had been dry since the moment I was born. I got up anyway. There was no point resisting.
"We've gotta hustle." He said preemptively thwarting the gleam of protest he already suspected.
"But I'm so tired, baby." I said, hoping in vain that he would go for me.
We got off the cold floor without another word. I threw up on the way...
Running from the larva, Nick wondered if he could stop for a second, catch his breath. He carried on, the survival persona taking over, making him look ahead at the hovering helicopter, knowing his life depended on reaching it...........
This part of the dream would never go away, he'd been recording it for years, wondering what it meant. He'd never been anywhere with a volcano, or any life of death scenarios, or had any worrying health concerns that he could recall.
Every night at three am he would wake, drenched in sweat, shouting out 'wait for me' to the helicopter...
The giant surveyed the landscape, wondering where all the people were. Truth was, he didn't know he was a giant. Everyone else he had ever come in contact with was a giant, so humans - the little people he had no knowledge of - didn't exist in his mind. Yes, he saw them, but they were nothing but insignificant little insects, ants, only there to annoy and crush.
He marveled at this world, so green and rocky, so unlike the limitless cloudy floors of his huge domain. He reached down and picked a few blades of grass, and at once...
The disco ball was turning. That was the first indication that something was wrong. That disco ball hadn't moved since 1982, when his brother put it up in his parent's attic to make room for his Tattoo You poster. The disco ball had hung for 30 years from a four-by-four, good solid wood. ("That wood ain't going anywhere, his dad once told him. That's old country wood, original American oak. Before all this," and let a wave of his hand tell the rest.)
He was up there in the attic when the disco ball turned, revealing it's multi-faced mirrored squares,...
Leaving was the easiest decision to make, and the hardest action to take. He fingered the photograph of his wife and daughter, remembering the last time he'd held them in his arms, crying as the rain washed away his tears. He remembered the wailing sirens, the questions, the looks on people's faces - faces filled with a mixture of sadness, suspicion, and contempt.
He thought about the judge, the look on condemnation as he sentenced him, as though the loss of his family wasn't punishment enough. He visualized walking past the liquor store, his steps heavier as he forced himself...