I remember this day. This was the happiest and saddest day of my life. That morning, my soulmate Pete and I were married. On our way to the reception disaster struck. SCREECH, CRASH. Next thing I knew, I was in the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital. I looked to my side but there was no Pete. At this moment, I knew the worst had happened. Pete was dead. I was in hysterics. It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life but instead, it was the worst. This was worst then the time my high school sweetheart...
The wires passed from hand to hand in the complex trading ritual. THe boy watched raptly, taking his training with the serious concentration of surgeons and chess-masters.
"You wrapped the wrong red and pulled the wrong green," he noted to his papa in mixed Spanish. The wires were then braided into his hair, the auburn hues mixing with the artificial Christmas tones.
"The day your hair grows out of these strands, you will have all there is to desire in this world. On that day, you may cut these colors and move on to the next."
The tea kettle screamed...
He pounded his head on the wall to the rhythm of the heavy bass. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
He'd attempted diplomacy already. Repeated knocks on the door had gone unanswered. No wonder: they probably assumed it was the music.
He'd attempted passive-aggressively turning his own music up to the max. Some good that does on a MacBook.
Nor did calling the neighbors help. The RA he'd summoned had joined the party.
3am on a Tuesday morning, in finals week. Deridda wasn't getting any easier. What would Deridda do? Hey thought. WWDD. Which was about the sound his forehead made...
The implant's biggest drawbacks were the headaches. The gear-man had assured her that would abate in time, but meanwhile she was dying for an injection, or even a good, old-fashioned aspirin. Too bad the chemicals would interfere with the implant's bonding process.
Text passed before her eyes, the latest news, the day's top story, ads for sexual aids and fast food joints. She blinked, but the visuals refused to recede into the background of her consciousness. Could she really take another day of non-stop sensory stimulation before she could control her access?
Resigned to stay plugged in, she laid back...
The rain had been pounding the east coast for days now. Floods crept closer to our compound, but for now, the levies held. For all intents and purposes, it was a good day. Just once, we had not had any incidents with any of our items. No alarms, no casualties, and no Class D riots.
But, we could only be lucky for so long.
It was late afternoon when the first anomaly appeared on the security screen in front of me. I only caught it out of the corner of my eye, but it was clear as day the second...
It was such a long time ago.
Such a very long time ago.
Yet for some reason she had still believed she would know the way.
As though she would remember the path that she had taken over and over when drunk, in the middle of the night, surrounded by people she hadn't known hours before but were now her best friends.
But it was daylight and it was years later and nothing looked the same.
Was that always a carpark?
Were the buildings those shops stood in new?
Was that where they had kissed?
Was this the corner where...
The thing about gold is: it lies inert. I mean, it shines, but...
Dubloons, you've heard the pirates speak of them. 490 years lie, ocean floor notwithstanding, and not a bit of tarnish, no rust.
Just try that with your silver, your iron, brass, your copper plate!
Gold. It runs, blurs, but -cool- it does not interact.
For this reason we think of it as pure, as spiritual:
Gold knows only its own soul.
Like a frigid bride it bides its time, growing not older, but alone
He knocked the three knocks. The two rap-raps. He whistled like a wren. Then he knocked twice again. The flight attendant replied, "Captain. Pick up the phone. I'm not playing your games."
"Oh come on. Just reply with the secret knock. It's easy."
"What is it you want?"
"To go to the restroom."
"Ok. Punch in your code and I'll punch in mine, and we'll get you to the lavatory and back."
She punches her code, her hand on the handle. She waits. "Captain?" She hears three knocks. Two rap-raps. A whistle like a wren.
"Captain. I'm a grown woman....
Shape is a thing that comes to you, after you have grown.
Breasts.
Waist.
Arms.
Butt.
It's a struggle between feeling fit and feeling smart, isn't it? This is the struggle. The struggle to take shape.
Job.
House.
Money.
Love (but not in a way that denotes overindulgence).
These are the sacrifices we make between sheer bliss and sweet control. You don't blame me?
You shouldn't.
When nothing really matters you can make anything mean everything. We were building sandcastles, waiting for the high tide to erase the evidence. No one wanted to be here anymore. We were hesitant to make permanent changes, but never really afraid of anything at all.
When nothing really means anything, maybe only everything means something. Try to interpret the meaning of double negatives and find yourself lost in a maze of meanings. Maybe.
We were building snowmen on the first day of spring, waiting for the weather to turn and ruin everything. No one we knew wanted to be here...