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in with Zenosyne: The Sense That Time Keeps Going Faster E: added link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNgyEmYyQF4 The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 11:09 on Jan 2, 2024 |
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Jan 2, 2024 11:01
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| # ¿ May 14, 2024 09:50 |
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Week 596 Submission Zenosyne: The Sense That Time Keeps Going Faster https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNgyEmYyQF4 The Calculus of Being Derivative or Losing Sight of E 1100 words Existence is a lowercase rolodex, spun fast then frozen at certain cards with certain names and certain addresses for longer than one can bear. James took her hand, and they ran through the backstage area before her favorite band was due on stage. It was quiet, like the halls of high school after hours, when you could roam and maybe find the unlocked boiler room of rough cinder block where the janitors hid a handle of gin. They had doodled on the walls with scraps of collected chalk, nothing too outrageous, but there were unambiguous sketches of Barlow the ancient booger picker, and the stinklines of Ms. Shaw whose perfume was a gallon of travesty. The heat of the furnace dried the Raggedy Anne row of mop heads quickly, so that’s where they lived. Grey on grey, bright and dingy. Powder a million years old scritched on the hard slurry of the same. Rocks turned into other. Other turned into artiface and art. Mallory was in the sound booth and shouted louder than their banter, “Hey you can’t be in here.” But she smiled when she saw James and said more quietly, “Get outta here.” She didn’t say ‘you can’t be in here’ because she liked them. They might have even been the best people for the job, if they cared. Jenny knew it was the place where he asked her to prom, where he slid down on one knee, and it was the most elegant move like he was on roller blades. It was truly beautiful, but he was not a beautiful boy. If only it were Trent. But Trent was making of a show of things at the hospital, where the Captain should, right up until gametime. Then he uniformed and threw three touchdowns in Mudhaka’s honor. James stayed at the hospital, and watched as they pulled the bandages away from her face. She said ‘no, Trent already asked me,’ but it wasn’t forgotten. His dad worked courtesy there, at the Med Center built for ten but servicing thirty. Laid off from the plant, he wheeled olds in on complimentary wheelchairs up there persnickity sidewalk where some might live and some might die James spent a few summers in the factory, learning how to sharpen industrial drill bits and aware that this teen, loving up, would mean injury for one of the good old union men. His hands were a delicious criss-cross of scars as delicate and shiny as eggwash on a pie crust. Yes, yes, yes, oh god, yes, yes, it was good for a while. They hid behind the shed where no one would see while the ground was frozen and it was a six mile stumble home for him. The shed was more than garden tools, it was where Brett staged Warhammer 40K battles and it was nicely heated and had a bathroom and a beer fridge, a disconnected lounge far from the main house. That. Told the whole story. Mudhaka had that rasp, a smoker twenty years gone, but it was just her voice. She wasn’t even twenty. In the hospital so long her already skinny legs wasted away even more. She was good looking, maybe the most beautiful girl in town, but after the car wreck bore a reaping scythe of a scar across her forehead and down her cheek. She was still beautiful. Stunningly moreso. She was absolutely unique. Jimmy died in the back seat. It was a thing, since for whatever reason there weren’t many Jameses in that school. This moment is sticky. If he were more handsome, maybe there would be no moment. If she had been spared, there definitely wouldn’t. Inscrutable Waves over and over like lyrics of a Bush song. And that nerd is nearly sixty now. When they were all in their twenties, and Fawad J. Shaw wanted to go see them, he was so nonchalant. But when that shredded washboard surfed over him he giddied. A voice in the cans or a tight dorm room makes you feel like you know them. You don’t. Of course you don’t. But the timbre tricks you. And you can fall in love with the distortion of a guitar or the tons in just the same way. When that melody matched your heartbeat, or makes your heart match the melody. She looks over in the bed, backlit by the glow of Prime, and sees his skin slough off. He disintegrates to pulp and bone, then dust. Pot belly melts into a puddle that drips down the icicle bones of his fingers and onto the hardwoods like skillet splatter where the cats might lap it up. He is gone, never was. She forgot his name. The universe began in cold plasma. Maybe a state of matter that we don’t understand. Nothing is a fallacy. The state of nothing, anyway. The fallacy is in what we call life. The house she built is made of atoms, but it only exists because it’s an extension of her will. A rippling forearm with a hammer becomes a home. The fibre of every timber doesn’t mean anything beyond its ability to cut the wind. The oxygen was sucked away long ago. She watches the slow creation and fast destruction and he’s laying on one of those cloak thingies with the owl hood that makes a royal lint nightmare in the dryer. His lil flopper is out, napping on his pooch. She wants to slap down on his belly and catch the tip of his dingus, but he says every time she does it that boils him in the gut like putting the kettle on with no water in it. She can’t help needing to see the slow motion cannonball undulations. Her hand goes right through him. He’s a ghost. That’s right. She remembers now. A snowflake turns to a raindrop just before it hits the salt pitted sidewalk. A return to formless form. Bon chance, mon ami. Bon shance, bon shansse bon shonsssse bon shon bon shon sssss She spits in her hand so he’ll fart himself to sleep in five minutes. Eventually, she slaps his hand away and she dreams unknown dreams. Sigurd slays the dragon, but his mouth is full of ichor. They are the same in different lifetimes. Au revoir till the end.
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Jan 4, 2024 14:50
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ty critters finishing a story is a tall order, but in and flash pls
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Jan 9, 2024 19:35
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Week 597 Submission Sex Eggs 1999 words Flash: Century eggs For my second birthday, I was sat in a high chair and given a chocolate cake with buttercream shaped of Cookie Monster all to myself. It filled the tray. The first taste of fake blue, and the rush of store bought cake that I’m sure was a little gritty. Findlay says she can’t remember anything before she was five, but I remember this distinctly. It was the days of shag carpeting and VHS tapes that cost a hundred bucks. I remember being stuck, maybe slightly too big, in that high chair while my uncles played Risk in the two bedroom apartment. Their house rule was no limit on armies, so they wrote on slips of paper when the tokens ran out. It spread across the floor of the living/dining room combo, torn notebook slips floating on the sea of Seuss green pile. Mom hustled in the kitchenette, fussing over a meal for ten: Dad and four brothers, Homer from downstairs to round out six for the game, me and my slightly older brother John, Mom, and her mom, Gramma. Meatballs bursting with diced onion and green pepper shrouded in sour cabbage-leaf, slathered in tomato sauce and baked. Pigs in the blanket. That’s what we always called them, so surprise, surprise the first time I signed-up for a pot luck and saw ‘pigs in a blanket’ on the sheet, stoked, only to graze the table and see hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. It was the most melodramatic “What the-” ever uttered. Halupki. While the boys played, John tore strips for the ever increasing stalemate, Mom cooked and I watched, Gramma on a high backed bar chair, sucking a dayglo-pink pickled egg from the two gallon jar in her lap. Another surprise when I sidled my first barstool and saw a jar of eyeballs on the counter. Just eggs in vinegar as clear as water. The bottom of Gramma’s jar sat thick with celery seed and coriander, black pepper, bay, mustard seed and allspice. Earthy beets bobbed in the murky brine. You knew the eggs were good and ready when the albumen was cyberpunk pink the whole way to the yolk. Pickled eggs. I don’t know how it went down, but I’m borne to a family of board game cheaters so I can surmise, and before the halupki were out of the oven, Homer was defeated and tucked into the chair next to Gramma, slyly looking to tuck in to those eggs. She tipped the jar and he fished an egg with fingertips immediately stained beet-purple. He bit the thin end and his face scrunched from the pucker power. Once he wiped the briefest of tears from the corner of his eye with an index knuckle, those dark eyes went wide. “Wa.” _____ There was always something spicy wafting up the stairwell, and anytime Gramma would babysit, Homer would show up with a stirfry of some sort or another. I remember it being a shock sometimes, coming in from the frozen air to the blast of capsicum, but it always smelled so good. Someone complained, so Homer wokked over propane on the balcony off his apartment. His rig took up most of it, the rest was a big planter filled with dirt, but there were never plants. Sometimes Gramma would wave up to us from down there. I confess, I don’t remember Pap at all, but there’s a picture of him sleeping in the waiting room as I was born. They always say he didn’t want to live until he was too old to die young, and he punched out a couple days after he turned 69. Come Christmas we got toy fishing rods and Gramma got us some Playmobil sets including a construction set that had a crane with a little platform on a winch. Before long we had the platform hooked up to the fishing rod and when Homer was out on his patio frying, John and I would lower snacktime carrot sticks and bell pepper slices down and he’d toss them in the wok before sending them back up, glistening and salty soy. We did that for weeks, until a plastic horse dropped off the winch into the wok, spun around like a coin in one of those shopping mall funnel wishing wells that collected for the United Way, and back out to land in his planter. Mom didn’t know until Homer knocked to return a greasy, dirty horse that we were frying our afternoon veg, and that was the end of that. John asked, “Why don’t you have any plants?” and he said, “It’s not for plants. I’m waiting for my eggs.” How did that work, what? Eggs in the dirt? Are they alive? Will they hatch? Did the birds lay eggs in your pot? But he deflected all those questions with a “You’ll see. They take one hundred years.” So we’d lay in the spring air, heads wedged through the bars as much as we could, looking down into the planter waiting for something to happen. A beak to sprout, feathery leaves unfurling, a dandelion head made from chicken feet that might blow away and scatter little chicken toenails across the playground. Anything. One afternoon, the Ma Bell rotary rang and Gramma answered, spoke quietly for a minute then hung up. “Red up quick. It’s time.” We scooped the rainbow Lego houses and rubble into the bin as the familiar knock sounded. Homer led us outside to the grass and plumped the planter. He rooted around the dirt, pulled a clump and scraped it down with a hard plastic spatula. Egg one, egg two, then egg dozen. Just dirty eggs that might have fallen into the leftover chocolate cake in the fridge. He rinsed them with the backyard hose and placed them in a straw lined basket, splotchy black and brown like the output of an oil-slicked Easter Bunny. John and I stood on the dining room chairs, leaning over the table, rolling strange eggs around in the hay. Homer cracked one over a tea saucer, deftly rolling the peel then held the orb up to the electric chandelier. Light shone through the black gelatin egg, flaked through like a frost on glass. He sliced it into quarters with his fancy chef’s knife and passed them around on other saucers. John poked, it wobbled. It smelled of soft braunschweiger (smoked liverwurst), and softer strong cheese and the tang of homemade kraut. They were all Gramma’s favorites, and consequently Mom’s favorites. Gramma bit first, and it was all of those at once, but something else. Astounding and sensory and savory. “Did they really cook for a hundred years?” asked John. “They’d be hard as dinosaur eggs if they were a hundred years old,” said Homer. “It’s squishy.” “It’s a special egg, but it’s just an egg.” Homer ate his. “Mmmmm.” We did it. And it felt like Jell-o with a cream cheese yolk. Sort of like an egg, but not—special. And I’ve done my best to explain the flavor, and you’d be forgiven for deciding it wasn’t for you. “How did you learn to make eggs?” I asked. “My mother always made them. But I don’t remember learning, I was too young. Your age, I think.” “You don’t remember my age?” “You’re four now, yes?” “Yep.” “I remember your age but not when I was your age.” “Huh?” Homer smiled, and Gramma smiled too, peeling another egg for herself. I resolved then, that I would remember remembering so I wouldn’t forget when I was little. Before long, we bought a small house far from town. Gramma owned her little condo but floated into Homer’s place where they were happy for a couple years, then Homer followed Pap. _____ Dad’s side was just American—the most exotic thing they might do is put strips of bacon on the Thanksgiving turkey. John and I got the idea one year, at the annual Easter gathering, to dye a century egg and mix it in for the Easter egg hunt. That was the dare, who ever finds it has to eat it, and Uncle Joe thought it was so hilariously disgusting he offered a fifty dollar prize to the kid who could eat the whole thing. That’s how it went for a few years, but cousins grow up and move away, and the family is blown to the winds like chicken toenails. Century eggs are forgotten for a while. I was married to Findlay for six years now, and Amanda was four. We decided it would be fun to revive the Easter egg hunt. Joe’s kids and their families were close enough. John had a couple ruggers of his own now, and didn’t live too far off. Findlay and I practiced for a couple months, finetuning the century egg protocol from Youtube videos, and finally hit paydirt. She didn’t like the look of them, and definitely didn’t like the smell. Perfect. The cousin-kids were hanging out all over the house, huddled over phones playing Fortnite and laughing at the adults’ pathetic gaming, when John knocked with a surprise. Gramma. “You sure it’s safe?” I asked. “Covid’s been around the home twice this year already, can’t be any worse here.” “Hmm. Welp, one last hurrah if we end up killing her.” Findlay put a platter of peeled century eggs on the coffee table, held a fifty dollar bill high and explained the hidden black egg challenge. The tykes huddled around the batch of eggs, poking and sniffing and barf-noising. Of course they were all in. John and I hid the eggs around the yard. She moved the platter to the dining room for Gramma, and on-yer-marks the kids went hunting, filling their baskets before the peeling ceremony. John caught up with Bobbie and Mack and spouses while Fin and I watched the chaos outside. “Where’s Amanda?” “Dunno—Mandy?” Moment of panic, then she came out of the house. “I found an egg inside,” she said. “OK, sweetie. But they’re all out here, go look.” Amanda bobbled off to the shrubline. I went back in and sat down by Gramma. ”Did you ever make these with Homer?” “Hung-min,” she replied. “Sorry?” “Homer’s real name was Hung-min.” “Oh. Why did he anglicize it to Homer? It’s not really easier to say.” “It’s just what people did. He wanted people to see him as American.” “Yeah.” I didn’t know what else to say, and didn’t want to melancholy it. Findlay herded everyone in and they peeled like mad. Little Mack found the hidden century egg, and once it was on the saucer and he was seated by Gramma, he got cold feet, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Amanda piped up, “I found a black egg, too.” Findlay said, “That’s good honey, where’d you put it?” “On Gramma’s tray.” “Uh-huh.” Gramma punched little Mack on the arm and he sniffled up at her. “It’s easy,” she said, “and so delicious. But first, you have to take out your teeth.” She popped her dentures on her little plate to a round of groans from the kids (and maybe me, too). She spider-fingered a whole black egg into her mouth, gummed it, scrunched her face to an impossible degree, then hollered best she could with the mouthful: “It’s alive! It’s hatching!” Kids squealed and ran, peeking from behind the furniture as she slobbered it onto the formica. It buzzed and bounced and spun across the table. Everyone jumped back, then it dropped and skittered across the tiles winding under the china cabinet. “Amanda, where did you find eggs in the house?” I asked. She came over and whispered in my ear. I knelt down to fish it out. “What the- Tell your mum.” I expected her to whisper it to Findlay, but she shouted at the top of her lungs, “IN MOMMY’S UNDERWEAR DRAWER!” _ Don’t worry, Gramma still tells the story to every new resident and orderly, and never forgets a detail.
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Jan 15, 2024 06:27
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ty critters in
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Jan 16, 2024 01:10
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| # ¿ May 14, 2024 09:50 |
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lol, ty critters Week 598 submission No Glove No Love 1432 worda As he extended his hand to the innkeeper, Bart Waller was balding. He had a nice pate in the back, his widow’s peak was a long dracula finger, so he shaved it down until there was but a sketch of a hairline everywhere. His stubble made a chinstrap of the scritchy helmet. The pair behind the counter wore gloves. It was cold out, a wintry day at the edge of autumn, but this was just outside Geneva. He was in Switzerland to explore the origins of the comic book, and whether this was a good place or not, he would write the story. Rudolphe Töpffer was the name he was after, and he doubted the owners of a bed and breakfast would know. But he tried. ɼHave you heard of Rudolphe Töpffer?ɺ His German was bad, but he tried that first. The name should see him through. But they switched to French, and he knew that better. “I don’t know that name, monsieur, an historical figure?” “Not exactly. Pardon. Your name, sir?” “Richard. And, of course, my wife, Sharon.” “Bonne. Good. We speak some Anglaise, sir.” Richard placed his hand upon Sharon’s and nah, his hand didn’t pass through hers like shadows on the moor, nah. Those leather driving gloves were corporeal and distinct. Sharon worked through her real or feigned rustic anxiety with the little box computer and printed molecules onto the door card that would let Bart meet his bed for the hot date he had been dreaming of since he got on the disease box they called a 737 half a day ago. With the key, she handed him a half-liter brown bottle with a cork. Bart held it, a little surprise as she popped the cork with a deft touch through her gloved hand. She said, “Bonmont Abby lambic.” He swigged. Deep cherry, deep carbonation. Deep delicious. “Is the Abbey around here?” he asked. Richland clapped her on the back, and gestured up the stairs. “To bed, sir, you’ll feel much better in the morning. We’ll discuss Töpffer and set you on your way.” Bart was jetlagged, but as he crept up the creaky stairs he knew he heard Sharon say, ‘the monastery’s been closed since 1670,’ and he swore he saw Richard’s own gloved fingers creep across her back like leeches on the hunt. But he had enough of a sudden rush from the fruit beer he figured was 30 proof and the fog of travel that he dismissed it. A fresh bed overrode everything. Framed sketches painted the walls, but he was too fuzzy already to appreciate them. With a swig or two, he thought he heard creaks behind him on the steps, and the goosedown wasn’t the only momentary appeal. Bart crowded the big mahogany door, and his French faded in his drunkenness, but he caught a bit. ‘Do you think … him … pliable … juicy (WHAT? NAH,) … the others …” And he thought to struggle with the heavy wooden door, but it was too late. The clicking of the lock across the hallway rang in his sullied ears, and the hallway was empty and desolate save for the stereotypical vase of edelweiss on the end table. With another swig or two, he met oblivion, but it wasn’t the calm void he hoped. When Bart sauntered down it was close to noon, and there was a full breakfast waiting. Smoked salmon and eggs, and proper English scones with the most divine Hollandaise. He thought he dreamed of eggs royale, and there it was. Now he tried to remember his travel forms and was sure he requested local cuisine as part of his adventure; if the travel dialogue wasn’t successful, at least he’d have a story, but his favorite meal was on the plate. But he wasn’t sure if he dreamed of eggs royale, maybe it was just porridge, or corn flakes. Or nothing at all. Maybe he dreamed of leather-bound hands stretching and pulsating along a middle-aged woman’s back. But he sniffed the food suspiciously, it smelled good and he ate. Before they asked, and maybe it was because he was distrustful, he plucked a Coca-Cola from the glass front mini-fridge and drank it instead of coffee. Said Sharon, “It transcends class.” Surprised, Bart just said, “Huh?” Richard shushed, but she continued. “Coca-Cola. It’s accessible to everyone.” “It’s a product of global capitalism and thus a fascist world state,” said Bart, but Sharon seemed stunned at that statement, so he didn’t continue, and tucked back into his eggs. Eventually Bart cleared his throat and asked, “So, about Töpffer, the graphic novels?” Dumb faces. “The illustrator? You seemed to know who I was talking about yesterday.” Richard chimed, “Oh yes. Töpffer. Born and died in Geneva. I remember where he lived. We can take you. He went blind, I hear.” It was true, but it sounded like a threat. There was a degenerative condition, and there was the immediacy of Richard’s words. “I’ll go prep the van, we can take you as soon as you finish.” His easy come easy go nonchalance was as simple as he came and went. Sharon sat kitty-corner at the long table. She reached a gloved hand towards Bart, and palm down, fingers flexed, she pulled off the leather with an effort that seemed more of the soul than the physical. He blinked and wondered if he needed new glasses, but the tattooed symbols and glyphs danced across her paper and liver skin. Bart asked, knowing, “Is this … Töpffer’s work?” He reached over to touch her hand and she recoiled. “Don’t. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.” “Sharon, are you okay? I mean,” and Bart nodded towards the window, “okay?” She paused, then said, “When you’ve been married as long as we have, you’ll understand.” That sounded defeatist and dismal. “I can get you out of here, come to London. Things will be better.” “They won’t,” she said, “I’m sorry.” Bart didn’t know if it was a heartfelt moment or a ruse, but Richard was back in at that moment, and if he didn’t have a genuine feeling in his bones he wouldn’t have smashed Bart over the head with the centerpiece. When Bart woke it was to the grinding of a drill. He was tied and restrained to the point he could only vibrate. The tattoo needle hovered over his left eye. His right was already swollen shut. Richard whispered, “It’s better if you just go back to sleep.” Bart was both sober and awake as the needle pumped into his other eye. The vibrations pulsed into his skullbones. He couldn’t blink, he couldn’t squinch his way out of it as the needle matrix like a TB test punched down into his cornea. He was blind. When he woke again, it wasn’t like waking from a dream. It was like still being in a dream. He could see. But everything he saw was dead. Decayed. A bed of rotten feathers, a TV with a busted screen. He staggered down the rotten stairs and Richard and Sharon waited at the decaying table. “Are you ready?” Bart didn’t know, but the Hollandaise and bread were rotten heaps. Sharon pulled her glove off again, and he saw. The chaos of swirling symbols were perfectly clear. Apocalypse. Bart stumbled back, as if the creaky stairs would provide refuge. Richard pounced, his paunchy frame betraying the speed and cunning. Bart wriggled under his weight, but it was useless. Richard pulled his glove off and they struggled, fingers intertwined. Bart shrieked and then maybe it settled into a groan. He felt the skin pull from his shoulder, felt it slide over his bicep, over his elbow and forearm, felt the skin slough off his hand and like mercury through a thermometer, felt it rise up off him as Richard absorbed it. He might die from infection or demand these psychos cut it off. That burning, electric hand touched Richard’s face. “Why?” “It keeps us young.” “That’s it?” “Is there a better reason?” Bart punched and punched with that decrepit hand, white with streaked fat in the muscles. He couldn’t see anything, that is, nothing aside from the swirling death of Sharon hovering above him. He knew that even if he escaped, he would die. “Cut it off,” he said. “Cut my arm off.” “Your eyes will see the truth. Your eyes will see the truth.” Bart collapsed. “The truth is not what you think.” The words he uttered were of no impact. His skin slid off his body like a melted push-pop.
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Jan 21, 2024 12:11
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