Displaying posts 1 - 5 of 6 in total
The color of a child’s smile is blue. Sometimes is red. But only if they’ve been eating some kind of cherry candy. Generally it beams this bluish hue, which is odd if you think about the meaning of colors. It should be yellow, yes? or purple, no? But it’s all a matter of perception. That’s what grandma says. Everyone sees the colors they want. Your green is your green. I like my blue. My blue isn’t the color of any kind of food.
Someone told me once that you are what you eat. But I’m blue anyway, even though most of what I eat is white, brown, bland colors really. Am I a bland color? You aren’t what you eat, you are what you think you eat. I’m going to believe my food is blue from now on.
Hey look a stream. Do you think it’s full of fish? They eat detritus and worms eat them. Does that mean worms are made of fish, or detritus?
But anyway, people are colorful, whatever they eat. Everything has it’s shade of blue, somewhere in it.
Standing on Europa now. Fun things here. Well not really. Actually, it’s rather desolate and cold. Freaking cold to be exact. That’s a scientific form of measurement. It’s about to get freaking ass cold. Now I’m heading home.
No life on Europa. Not anymore.
Oh, yeah, I should probably introduce myself. I get a little carried away, wandering through my colorful thoughts. I like to take a ride on the red sea with a brown bag—for the you know, just in case. There’s always someone on board with the purple haze and green skin. Just watch out for yellow. Thar be scurvy in them colors. Oh, poop, missed the intro again.
Hi, I’m sam. Not Sam I am, that’s a different Sam. I’m just Sam, we’ll Sam Schmitismusman but I like to leave that part off for first introductions. Shoot. botched that one. Hey, I’m Sam. And you are? Yes? Oh, it’s your tram stop? I guess I’ll see you around then.
By the way, your smile is really, really blue, like a fish out of water. No that’s a good thing. Really. Trust me. Better than green. or yellow. Be proud ye ain’t got the savage scurvy.
Hey what’s your name? Ah, uh-huh. Ok, sure I don’t talk to crazy people either. What fun would there be in that?
It’s a part of you, this thing they’ve implanted. What is it made of, some polymer clay, iron, ore, something wicked or new, who knows. They put these things inside, hoping to gain insight. imagine what they could glean from a clean specimen. Men with no connection, nothing to lose, nothing to gain.
Back in the dark, again, they’ve got this thing wired to your head. If you think straight, the lights go out. What can that be for? If there’s a reason, they wouldn’t tell you. That’s part of the experiment, the data collection, the reason.
But you do this to pay for school. It’s all you can do, that or sell parts. It’s better to gain a little implant than lose a little kidney or push your plasma on the street. At least these guys are professional. Or so they seem. How could you tell if this was legit or something sinister? It’s so easy to make things. The suits, the badges, the equipment. It looks like it would have been expensive before you could just make things. But now, these guys could be broke, selling off your data to the personality cloners, pushing our your identity to the over-net, leaking out your dreams to the pay-per-view audiences in distant places.
You wonder for a minute if this is your fifteen minutes of fame. Could it be? Could this be all there is to show? You’ve got this tube of gelatinous metal in your ribcage. Are you the first to try it? Probably. You try bending and find it’s sore. You jump, push, pull, drop and roll. There in a half turnpipe spin, you find bliss. This new ribcage of yours just splits open to reveal a tentacle mesh of neotechnic hands, reaching out for perch against the walls, rocketing you back and forth. You close your eyes. They carry you, these arms, walking for you, bounding through the hallway of the artificial medical unit. There at the end, you see a woman in white standing next to a hover-tray. It’s giving her in injection. She faints. Move along. Nothing to see here. Nothing but images as you float by, out into the streets.
There’s a place in the park where all the old men go to die. They play games with their past selves, screaming banter at bankers, bidding on winners and pranksters. Eventually, it all caves in. The pieces fall. The trees sag and drop their leaves.
The balcony is too high. But I can jump it. I can get to the other side. If only the rain would abstain from taking my feet from the ground as they glide out and up from my landing zone. I know this is what will happen, wet metal, pooling up, no choice. Go now.
That’s the fall, long, steady, hard. My shoes hit the metal edge of the building across the alley and, surprisingly, the soles kick out some foamy stabilizer, pushing past the pool of water, adhering to the metallic surface and finally pulling me off the edge, onto the rooftop. My torso jeers forward from the momentum and I nearly taste the floor.
The rain is thick enough to almost mask me up here. The city lights are below this level. Only the moonlight, sparkling off the raindrops reveals my location as I patter across the deck. This building is huge. I don’t know how many stories. Hopefully nobody in the way as I run down the stairs.
The stairway smells like wet paint and bleach. The Janitors have already made their rounds. It appears I’ll be able to safely traverse this passage…
Three and a half flights down, a door swings open, almost laying me out with a thwack as I ran into it. There’s this night fellow, swinging a flashlight, looking at me with a discombobulation turning into a sour grimace. This isn’t good. Instinctively, my body reacts. His flashlight flies though the air, bouncing out of his broken hand. I catch it as I run past, down the stairs, hearing the siren of whistles along the way.
This isn’t over. I run faster.
I want music that breathes—not just pumps and jams but takes in the air and exhales in a waltz. Speak to me in french, Portuguese, Russian. Drum in a dead language. They don’t hear you anyway. It’s all just noise to the self obsessed, photographing themselves and tuning out to the tweet noise, awaiting only replies. The news says there’s nothing new but I can hear the “bump, ba dump ba dump” of the accordion, breathing a dance into the air.
The cafe is dark, connected, sulfur smelling under the guise of the peppermint oil that lights the lamp. Someone throws a beer bottle on stage, thumping into the leg of a twelve year old who is reinventing music as a living organism. He doesn’t stop—he doesn’t even look up, entranced in the moment. This kid is God.
“Hey, play Freebird!” This from the peanut gallery minus a beer.
The kid plays on, a pattern of breath inside the beat that just sings.
“Deaf boy!” The man starts again, but by this time I’m right behind him. He hears the sweetest melody of his life in the last seconds before he hits the table, unconscious, breathing. Still breathing. He’s finally in tune.
The music continues. The darkness lightens. The ether turns milky, borealis, a ghostly succubus, luring in wayward coffee drinkers and beer connoisseurs.
We hear the siren’s call. This savant messenger speaks well. He carries the tune and we tune in, leaving our egos by the side.
All I see is a metallic shimmer, blue, green, swipes of sudden chaos into view.
The cruisers are smashing down the mainway, ricocheting off the walls with malice and gusto. Benny doesn’t care if he scratches the paint; it’s new but everything is these days. He can roll another out the maker box in half a breath.
The other cats apparently aren’t so wealthy as Benny. They curse and rant in hi-def subliminal microwave, neon vector raves pulsing from the decks of their cars, flashes of red and black, blipping abuse at the other motorcraves. One in particular, this jocky puck who sports a flyboy mohawk and a thread leather seatback throttles it forward next to Benny, giving him the bird with his telehand. Benny is thrown for a sec by the florescent intrusion. The projection threatens the sky with epileptic seizures. Cars screech and skitter around the blaze of light.
Benny sucks it up; he’s taken the piss before from ingrate halflings who haven’t been on the track longer than the day. This punkbag doesn’t have the verbal skills to make Benny flinch. And with that, a kiss-off glance and a for-real finger in the air, Benny rips the box a new one. There’s something to be said for the finesse of a seasoned motorcrave, but you have to be there to witness it for yourself.
The causeway is clear now; the light is gone. Motorcraves are in a new city by now. I’ve got a headache.
© 2017 Write for Ten — Content created and posted by Write for Ten users is owned by their respective owners.