Thursday, August 25, 2005

Oh Linkie Day

Oh Linkie Day!

It turns out that, no matter how crappy a short story is, it still takes some time to actually finish. Hence, the three posts in the last three weeks. Triangulation was an experiment; a ramble that I had to get out from underneath the folds of my brain. Now that's all taken care of, I can get on to more important things. Like inane links!

1. Fun
Strangely addicting. Like crack. Or Krispie Kreme.

2. Disturbing. But still kind of fun. Don't hate me.

3. Intriguing.

4. Ass-kicking fun. Great Flash work, too.

Friday, August 19, 2005


The overheated asphalt pulls away from the grooved rubber of my underside of my shoes, its inexplicable mass that once forced me unto itself has loosened its grip. The immediate space around me is propagated with crude, angular steel and concrete, their structural integrity diminished and long forgotten.

It's often said that people see things in slow motion; something in the brain clicks, malfunctions or shifts momentarily, resulting in heightened awareness, quicker reflexes and an incredible euphoria. Jordan would see the final minutes of a close ball game in creep past him, he could sense the anxiety in their sweat, their fear in their eyes. Reality replaced with something else.

Dust replaces every conceivable inch of bright colors and reflective surfacing with its blanket of dull, muted silence. My lips, a second before lightly wetted and a bit chapped, are now a fleshy mass of muddled dirt, packed tightly and absorbing all precipitation exhausted from my mouth. My tongue finds its way out, attempting in vain to resuscitate them.

I continue to float, shoved aside by forces unseen. My brain works. I am acutely aware of this fact; my mind is alert, processing the scene around me. It tell me the car about forty feet to my left is, in fact, forty feet to my left, and that it shouldn’t be laying—windows shattered, engine steaming—on its side. It tells me that I shouldn’t be weightless, and the scattered, torn limbs shouldn’t be laying forlornly in the streets and sidewalks.

My arc is changing. Things—light, breath, instincts—accelerate into a rapid fire of thought and illogic. My brain is aching, screaming, urging me that the situation, the flying weightlessness, is not only wrong in its occurrence, but threatening to my survival. I continue to fall, twisting through grime and heat. My instinct, my entire being, pleads for me to brace, cover myself for the imminent collision of concrete and muscle, asphalt and teeth.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Triangulation, cont.

The fit is tight but comfortable, reassuring; a reminder of my faith. The vest is black, with square pockets sewn into the sides and backs. It hugs my torso, its metal clasps and industrial Velcro embracing me. The pockets are full of course, their message potent and true. The car I am in is a Buick LeSabre; a lively piece of shit that rolls and rollicks in time with every nuance of the road. A clean machine it's not.

The countryside blurs around me; a messy slideshow of pastures, livestock and oaks. The commute is a fairly long one--God knows I've endured it more than any human should. But it will be over soon. Sooner than later, since I'm going against traffic.

It's Friday, a little after 3. The leaves are begining to turn, albeit a bit reluctantly. It seems they too haven't had their fill of the sun just yet. September in the countryside is a mind-numbing blast of color. Usually. This year, however, has only seen a bit off change, the yellowing leaves still holding on to the spring's green.

The blurring landscape begins to change, devolve; livestock and hay fields meld into asphault lots and retail coffee shops--a mass of capital, investments and overhead. Things will get better soon. I have to believe it. I do believe it.

This trip has been three years in the making, a result of careful planning, fastidious savings and a careful eye to detail. Some are suspicious, I'm sure; others non-believers who are afraid to face the truth. They will soon enough.

I point the rattling, bobbing Buick through every lane marked "City Center," just as I've done for as long as I can remember. Day in, day out, the same old route. I used to say that often, but menacingly, forming the words with my teeth and lips and bile. Traffic is begining to pick up in the opposite direction; the inevitable Friday rush that emboldens downtown's workforce to take off early. But no matter how early they start, they never quite make it where they want to be, when they want to be there. It's always too little, too late.

I edge off of the freeway, coming to a stop light where I've turned left, and been cut off, so many times I couldn't begin to count. Two more blocs, then a left. Then a right. And I'm right in front, for all to see, for all to begin living the lives they were meant to. The light turns, flashing green. I feel the car pull forward, the wheel turning, the engine accelerating. The car changes lanes, coasts for another block. Another stop light. The car and I are now one entity, being held against our will by yet another form of technology. The light changes. Things are speeding up. Cars are moving, stopping and starting in a hectic, jolting dance. Another light. One more turn. Green. The car jumps from its idle, eager, as I am, to set the world on a new course.

The building was built in 1945. It houses 25 different companies, from countless industries; advertising, finance,'s all there, begging to be let go from their tired beings. It's an older style of architecture, what era, I don't know. There are columns and large, single paned windows at distant intervals. It's a shame, really, because as much as the excrement it houses on the inside, the outside is quite striking. What's built is meant to fall. I exhale the last word as I pull up to the curb directly in front of the main entrance.

People file in and out, mostly out, though, eager to get out of town and into traffic. They'll forget soon enough. I stare ahead, holding the electronic trigger close to my heart. And even though the vest is thich and heavy, I feel my heart pulsating through it, electrifying the wires and batteries and coils snaking around my mindsection. It's silent. My eyes open. The world freezes. It's time.


To be continued.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005


My breath echoes, ricocheting and dodging my broken form, the exhalation finding its way into the atmosphere. My ears ring, a high-pitched hum, rattling and searing its way through my brain. I focus, try to hear something, anything else. Nothing but settling dust and empty, electrified air.

There's something else - a presence - gently touching my back. Concrete, smooth and industrial, reaching down, a constant reminder of its charity.

I'm folded into myself: my chin digs its way into my sternum; my hands still holding onto one another behind my head. Terror creeps in, removing the momentary relief that had been squatting in my brain. My brain urges me to move, pleading it to test my ankles and arms, joints and cartilage.

Tingling. My right shoulder. It's pinned up against more concrete. I'm being driven into the wall; the space is smaller, darker, unspeakably terrifying, strangely welcoming. Slower. Breathe slower. In out in out in out it goes, teasing my lungs, leaving them wanting more, always more.

It's saying something again. It's telling me to listen to my left shoulder. Too much pressure. A flash. Was it real? Help is coming. No. Help means voices, noises, drills and cranes and pneumatic cylinders cranking to life through gasoline and spark. Only silence sings.

Sudden emptiness. The pressure pushing me into the wall is replaced by a void of space. Or rather, the sense of space. Yet, my entire body wills itself closer to the concrete slab. Another flash. My knees. I can feel the grit of the sidewalk through my jeans. I'm pushing off of them, leveraging them to force myself closer to the wall. Easy. Relax. Breathe. Quit pushing. Start leaning. No more pressure.

I reach out into the oxygenated abyss; a foot in font of my head lies a craggy, unforgiving orgy of metal, wires, asphalt and concrete. To my left, eight inches of air resonate wildly from my shoulder to the concrete rough currently reminding my lumbar of its presence. Abusing my knees further, I slowly shuffling backwards for all of five inches: another barrier.


To be continued next post...