Nothing here that means anything other than dust and time stretching out.
We are the expression of the infinite
The unknowable
Behind our eyes - depths unthinkable
ineffable
We are sons and warriors, clerks and middle men. Heartbreaking failure, transcendant triumph.
We crowd about this nothing, this dust shaped void. we are the forms and the edge of the void that is the whole.
We are singing you home.
Snip. Snip.
Pause.
Snip snip snip.
He squinted into the test tube. The stems of heather floated in the solution of sodium dodecyl sulfate, suspended, waiting.
Laughing at him.
Gene closed his eyes. No, he thought, not now. Not after all this. Not when I'm so close.
Flashback to the grimy street where he was born, eleventh child to a drunk and a slattern. When he dared say that he would grow up to be a scientist one day, oh how the neighborhood toughs had loved it. Another reason to pound him, day after day. "Gene, Gene the gene-machine, work...
To run was the only thing he could do. He couldn't escape the overwhelming feelings.
He couldn't escape the overwhelmingly heavy burden of the path he was given. It was his path, yes. Or was it a shared path? He suspected it was, but there was no one who could verify it. No one. He was Forrest Gump, just running. And the Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory was his reward. Momma said life was a series of bumps-- raised sheaves of sidewalk to step over or turn around and avoid. So he runs.
How endlessly the ocean seems to stretch out over the horizon. It never ends as it drifts beyond view, but you and I both know that even though it continues further than our sight, it will go on to find its end at some far off beach on some other continent. There, someone will stand at it's shore and look out the way that we are now and make the same observation. We will then be the ones that cross their minds as some strangers with our toes in the sand, creating some cycle of perception of one another. I...
"She was the most delicate girl in town,"
I put down my glass.
"Delicate?"
"You know, delicate" and he moved his hands as if to express the shape "Like a flower is or a painting. She had a softness. And it was hot down there all year pretty much so she was like all the other girls and wore the cotton dresses but she wore them differently. Just by herself, you know, I mean she wasn't trying."
"So you mean she was pretty."
"I mean delicate."
"And you never worked it out with her? This very...delicate girl?"
"Well I got...
Potatoes. He was so sick of eat potatoes; mashed, baked, steamed, roasted, jacket, it didn't matter what topping or how much butter he slathered on, enough was enough. Not that there was any money for toppings or butter. Yesterday he'd gone to the shop at closing time and lurked just out of sight while the already reduced items were being further reduced. Once again, he was able to score a large bag of King Edwards for 29p. Excellent, he could make that last at least three days, maybe more if was able to get some free stuff out of the...
"You know why girls suddenly change their hairstyles don't you?" He leered over my sister with that gap-toothed smug-motherfucker grin. "Girls change their hair every time they make a major change in life. Like pigtails right before or right after a break-up. Females actually believe this changes them as a person."
My sister giggled, which is my favorite part, right before she undid the top two buttons on her blouse, which is my least favorite part. "You're so right," she said. She kissed him, hard, right before she saw me peeking under the door.
She scowled at me, but she...
"If you say so," I said, feigning indifference. It was best not to commit to something that would go south in microsecond, which I suspected would happen with Jacob's escape plan.
"Let's go over it one more time," he said excitedly. "At 2100 tomorrow, I'm going to shank Billy in the kitchen. The guards will come running to take me away to solitary, like they did the last thirteen times."
"You don't have anything to shank with," I said, annoyed at his overly dramatic air. "All we're allowed are sporks made of recycled corn, or whatever this shit is." I...
"Something is wrong with the clock."
"...what?"
"Look at it."
20:70.
"That's not possible."
"Or it's ten past nine...?"
"No, because that would be twenty-one-ten. This is twenty-seventy." A pause. "Do you think it's odd, that we rely on technology so heavily?"
"Not especially. Everything is technology, really. Pen and paper, that's technology. Not advanced, but it's still technological. You see, externalising information - "
"Yes, yes, I've heard you lecture." She gave him a look. He'd clearly forgotten how they met.
He looked at her again, and she wondered if he had. "Of course you have. It's natural, for...
It approached. The first day of writing a 6 minute story. "Excuse me? A story about a story? That's so meta", I whispered to myself. The truth is, the story is really about life, and life is both the story and the story teller.
Four minutes. Really, it took two just to write that paragraph? "It's been so long since I've written creatively", I thought to myself. It's true. It's been years. Nowadays, most of my words are shaped in the form of technical documents, twitter updates, and code.
Three minutes. Time is ticking down. I look to my right,...