December 2009
13 posts
Jeff sips from the steaming mug. Wisps of heat, suspended in frigid air, draw patterns over his hot chocolate. He trails a finger through, writing a message. A gust of wind carries it off in a rush — urgent to deliver it elsewhere.
Jeff pops the lens cover, tucking it in his back pocket. His back to the brickwork, his feet precarious on the ledge — he steadies himself, fidgets with the telephoto. Seven stories down, the cab is pulling into position. He sets his eye to the viewfinder.
Jeff pushes the red button. Glass shatters on every side, shards pelting, melting. Droplets hanging in mid-air. Rain becomes fire; the air solidifies and is drowned in liquid light. Sounds grow color as a searing white consumes the platform, atom by atom. Last to disintegrate is the warning sign: Do Not Press.
Jeff pulls the ring from his finger and studies it. Such value, imparted to so impermanent a thing. He releases, watches it fall, watches it vanish through the gap in the storm drain. Steps off the curb and down the street, a steady pace, heading east. Away from the church.
Jeff straps a bomb to his chest and sets the timer for fifty years. Unreliable mechanism, yes, but sufficient — give or take twenty years at the most — an acceptable variance. The rusted spool had to be finished at any rate. The device beeps, every two minutes, a soft acknowledgment. He begins to smile.
Jeff cracks the shell of the candy. A complex maneuver, the extraction. He widens the gap, clearing excess chocolate with a pair of tweezers. Green-white crystals pour onto the tray, suspended over an open flame. In minutes, the powder boils away, leaving flecks of electric blue. Forty-one more and he’ll have enough.
Jeff tilts his head, ever so subtly: an acknowledgment. The barkeep slips away, exits without a word, sliding the lock. Lights wink out. Alone in the dark, save the flash of the diode, intermittent red to match his mood. Waits to finish his cigarette. A single button press, and the floor drops away, forming stairs. A descent into fluorescent green.
Jeff cracks the lid on the rusted pickle jar. An odor, pungent — filling the room, curling noses. Amidst the chaos, he smiles thoughtfully. Still the best way to clear a hall of librarians.
Jeff names his daughter after a mythological creature. Twenty-seven years later, during a routine parallel-park procedure, she hops the curve. The gas, rather than the brake, is engaged (an accident, she later explains) and his spine is severed. He tells himself the two are not related.
Jeff tightens his grip on the handrail. The shuttle sways, rocked in the wake of an ocean liner, passing overhead. Outboard lights brighten as the craft dips. A swarm of green — SCATTERING, a burst of piscine fireworks. A glimmer of gold, reflected in the beams. Somewhere below.
Jeff surveys the landscape before him. Rolling hills, lavendar in the fog, a seamless blend with an azure sky. An old-growth forest, untouched by time, split from a crystalline lake by a stretch of sand, purest white. He smiles quietly to himself. It’s the perfect place for the mini-mall.
Jeff assembles instructions, bit by bit. A spark of light, perhaps there, perhaps imagined. Just behind molded eyelids. He studies them, fixated, the heavy goggles on maximum magnification. One last tweak to the subroutine.
Jeff consults his intergalactic compendium. No entry for “elenzhorn”, not in twenty-six dialects. He shuts the menu, giving up, turning to the Rhuvian gentleman on his right. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Jeff shrugs. No idea what she meant by “red running”, nor the “third axe at the eleventh”. His hands were stained, sure, but not by blood. If even experts could identify no source, how’d they expect him to know? A week lost to fog and dark, and nothing now but waiting. Jeff keeps his eyes on the clock.
November 2009
21 posts
Jeff hugs the inside curve, pushing power from life support to thrusters. Seventh lap is the signal — red flares on the barrier. Guns for it, IMPACT — shatters through, screaming up the hidden ramp, a loop — GRAVITY INVERTED — and BLASTS onto the final tier. He punches the afterburner.
Jeff passes under the arch. One hundred amber orbs illuminate the garden, aloft on silver wings, adrift amongst the shrubbery. He knows where to find her — the hollow stump, a turn, a winding path. Moonlit moss on an old stone well. She is waiting.
Jeff collapses into the snowbank. The earth quakes, rattling his frame, echoing thunder in his ears. The great sphere, hurtling down the hillside, gleaming white and picking up speed. Pine trees flattened before it. This was going to hurt.
Jeff swings from the chandelier. Drops — too soon — crashes hard on a table, flipping it, launching wine glasses. Ruffians dart between patrons, rapiers at the ready. Jeff hurls a throwing star; precision hit! The man goes down, a blade lodged over his heart. Right in the embroidered ‘R’.
Jeff watches, motionless. The needle pierces just above the restraint. Daffodils, flying on their cinnamon wings, circulate the sky. An idea of love explodes, ricocheting off the ceiling fan, filling the room. A cloud of haze descends upon him, freeing the white in his eyes, singing softly the color of danger. The man in the white coat smiles.
Jeff douses the light. Feels the water rushing in, filling, rising to his shoulders, his neck. It carries him up, up and over, around — in an instant all is liquid. Faint luminance. Ahead, foggy streams from an unknown source, somewhere above. He shuts his eyes. Drifts into darkness.
Jeff leans over the balcony, surveying the caravan. Eighteen structures, lashed together, swaying on the back of three colossal beasts. His gaze sweeps the guard posts — trained men, ever alert, their longstaffs sparking with full charge. A distant roar draws his attention; the floor lurches beneath his feet. The apatosaurs are nervous.
Jeff stands at the fork, staring down two paths, neither clear. The tunnel to the left is mirrored glass, a spiral of recursion, every turn reflecting back on itself. To the right, a howling dark, broken at intervals by flash and thunder. There is a third option. He doesn’t consider it.
Jeff balances on the Saturn, arms outstretched. Like surfing, really, only faster. He glances back, considering the timing — and jumps. Hangs in the air. One. Second. Lands on the approaching Mustang, like stepping off an escalator. Hands up as they fly under the overpass. He knows he can’t reach it.
Jeff spins, foot connecting with the box, scattering contents — swings the gun around, four shots — each bullet shatters a taco. Tortilla remains and customers hit the concrete. An employee, behind — fist up, smashes the taco from his hand without looking. Holsters his gun, backflips, and exits. Just because he can.
Jeff leaps, catching the rail with perfect timing. Swings up, onto the rear of the train, pulling clear just as it hits the tunnel. Flashes of white light whip across his face; the echoing howl fills his ears. He adjust his lapels before entering. Makes for the dining car.
Jeff surrenders to the music. Soaring strings carry him up and over a sea of percussive hits. Below, the younger brass sister ventures too close to the shoreline. A timpani seizes her by the neck, plunging her into the beats, drowning her. A key change covers the muffled screams.
Jeff sifts sand with his toes, waiting. Waves crash in anticipation. The rumble begins: spires first, then outer walls, brickwork breaking through the shore. Rising to full height, settling into the predawn light. The gate beckons; he descends into the sandcastle.
Jeff slips between the folds of the sunlight. He catches himself, the sudden shift from grass to pavement always jarring. A mile or so, perhaps two? It was getting easier. He ambles down the sidewalk, admiring the storefronts, the leisurely foot traffic. Steps across the street, over the county, and through the wall at the train station.
Jeff dives, two stories, straight down. Pulls into a parallel, skimming over the field, the tallest grass brushing his outstretched arms. Then up, gaining speed, spiraling into a cumulonimbus. He checks his watch, marking the time as his feet find the golden platform. Just under twenty minutes. A personal best.
Jeff enters the final passkey, engaging the power grid. A shudder, a shimmer, a void appearing over the platform. A shrieking, the wailing, the horrors condensed, made solid. Funneling into the portal, the indefinable, undeniable gap in reality before him. It’s working.
Jeff staggers down the corridor, blazing a red drip trail. He fights for clarity, his vision swirling, dimming. He’d remove the knife it didn’t match so well with his belt. Shame about the splatter and soaked shirt, though. He should have worn burgundy.
Jeff completes the sequence. Warning lights splash the viewport red. The control board dims, and a swirl of white and blue obscures the stars. The rift resolves into a sphere, enclosing the one-man craft. The energy brightens, quivers — and the ship is gone.
Jeff lowers the lid, the latch clicking softly into place. Eight steps backward to the door. A right, seven paces, a left, and the tunnel ends in torchlight. A final stretch — not til he emerges, til he blinks against a reddening sky, does the earth shudder with inconsolate rage.
Jeff pulls a brush from his jacket, satisfied he’s alone. The bristles dry — yet paint springs to the concrete. A swipe, a dab, a dollop. The outline of an entrance. He replaces the brush and turns the knob — the door swings wide.
October 2009
22 posts
Jeff runs the numbers in his head. Extrapolate five years — he quickens his pace. If Jorgensen’s figures were right, it was what? Ten, eleven degrees of rotational shift? He ups the jog to a sprint, prays there’s still time. The trampoline must come down at all costs.
Jeff jumps, catching the last rung. The earth falls away, shrinking rapidly. Hand over hand, he fights the sway of the ladder, white-knuckled. Roar of swirling blades in his ears. The pilot is surprised, as he should be. The metal clicks, cuffs lock the grenade to the landing skid. Jeff releases and drops out of sight.
Jeff scales the massive oak, relic of another world. The fortress reveals itself—glimpses through the foliage—a half mile further. Wood and stone entwined in branches thick as a man. Parapets, towers, and now the gilded arch of the main gate comes into view. The tree fort was larger than he’d expected.
Jeff steps into the downpour. Searchlights play across wet cobblestone, tossing shadows onto alley walls. He stops by the wrought-iron gate, expectant. The doorman slips from the dark, releasing the latch - he makes not a sound. Thunder echoes into the night.
Jeff isn’t sure if he’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. He bends for a closer inspection, scrapes dirt from the pavement. A tiny, distinct shape, set into the center of the parking lot. A keyhole.
Jeff braces himself, clutching the tree, its trunk bent with strain. The towering windmill creaks in protest, gathering speed. If he could just reach the tunnel — a great TEARING, shriek of metal and groan of wood — FALLING, TUMBLING, his feet leave the ground — TOO LATE —
Jeff eyes the blonde across the room. She’s alluring, yet dangerous, a combination he typically prefers. Something in the air, though - something gives him pause. Light shimmers through crystal candelabras, gleams from the seamless mirror wrapping the room. A sharp intake of breath as he realizes. Her reflection is not reversed.
Jeff clears the balcony on his second leap. Lands hard on the table, upending it, sending china flying. He bursts into the back alley at a sprint - the world spins - gravel greets his face. Would have made that backflip to the fire escape, if not for the rain-slick pothole. “We can’t all be Batman,” he reminds himself.
Jeff hits the freeway doing one-twenty. The silence is unsettling - eight lanes and not another soul. The sky darkens with the gathering swarm above him. He punches in a final adjustment, and the screen responds with a countdown. Eight miles to liftoff.
Jeff searches the night sky, a futile endeavor. Rain pounds on the deck in rhythm with the tossing waves. Lanterns cast diffuse glow through the ever-present fog. It’s been six weeks since he’s seen the stars.
Jeff edges away. A subtle change, but one he should have caught sooner. The ratio of gray coats tipping towards dangerous. The crowd doubles by the time he makes the alleyway, and the red beret is already at the megaphone. His bike is right where he left it; he turns the key and doesn’t look back.
Jeff heaves the lever, freeing the weights. Gravity sets gears into motion, tumbling and spinning and interlocking. The tower fills with the rattling clangs of a great machination, stirring from its long slumber. Stone crumbles and gives way - he straps in as the vessel frees itself from the cliffside. The sea rushes to meet them.
Jeff gazes into his reflection. Nine pools, rippling softly, each glimmer a subtly separate hue. Rocky shards dot the hillside, casting to heaven, or fallen from it. The stars in perfect alignment. A constellation for every portal; they beckon to him. None aiding to ease his choice.
Jeff lets the tunnel guide him, footfalls echoing on corrugated metal. Rusted pathways weave their way over oily waters of unknown origin. Moss clings to the concrete blocks, arcing overhead. Yet strangest of all are the trees - primeval specimens, undisturbed - embedded in the walls. Each step leaving more of the material behind.
Jeff laughs uncontrollably. It didn’t matter if the experiment had gone awry; it meant little that the genetics had proved horribly unreliable. Even his imminent (likely excruciating) death wasn’t enough to assuage the giggle fits. Ravenous peacocks still looked ridiculous.
Jeff keys in the launch sequence and steps behind the blast shield. Thrusters ignite, the heat wave nearly knocking him over. The rockets rattle in their make-shift silos. The chain would hold, or so he told himself. The sisters would receive their teddy-bears. One way or another.