This piece is about a man who is confronted by a divine intervention where he least expects it.
The train segments turned one at a time with a slight successive delay and the passengers swayed sideways. A drop of sweat visible on a forehead of the pale man named West. The tunnel squeeze was tightening and and the walls were stretching, only at West's own discretion, ad infinitum. Whatever next station was West was either dying or getting off as he clenched with powers borrowed by the divine. The station was approaching. He stood up and kept his face as intact as he could. A psychological launch procedure begun: three: door slid open, two: he stumbled onto the platform, one: oh fuck. The escalators like mudslides with people cascading. West with chaos within headed into the chaos without and it was soon about to emerge. He clenched so hard to the point that he could no longer feel his face.
The metal door marked by a black stick figure in a wheelchair; he made it. It was one of those public toilets where you could enter without [financially] paying, with implied condition and clientele. A dark blue blazer in contrast with small ear extensions, neat beard and a flat cap and now fancy West had to risk by paying the optics of entering such foul place. He slammed the door open and the white throne was standing shiny, tall and proud. With every passing sequence the will of the load exacerbated but he made it all the way across and his ass finally touched the white rim. Just as the release commenced he glimpsed at another ass poking out of the bathroom wall. The male butt was on his knees and to the waist up stuck inside the wall. West probably had dropped a bit of the load but quickly undid the work by sucking it back into his body.
“Uhm?”, West asked.
“Is there anybody in there?”, a muffled voice made it through the wall.
“Sorry but I have to… Ugh... cannot keep it anymore. I’m sorry”, a barbarous cluster reminiscent of grindcore reverberated.
“Dude!", the muffling again.
“I had no choice, sorry”, silence befell the room and to camouflage the next wave West continued speaking a louder but forced, “and so what are you doing in there?”
“Fuck you. You can't charm me now”, the ass was saying. West fumbled with some toilet paper while eyeing the exit. The sweat from all the shame was crawling out of his forehead.
“You know... There must’ve been some dairy in that cinnamon roll I had at my client’s office”, West not heeding the advice of his daimonion. He wanted to redeem himself.
“Just let me enjoy this. Stop telling me shit. To some extent I knew this would happen but it is hard for me to accept”, the muffled tone was shifting, it was not angry but disappointed and poignant.
"What are you on about?! Why don't you just get out of here and let me have the room to myself?", West was freaked out and fumbled more with the TP, he bet this guy was high off his ass. West's butt was, however, not ready to transition to the next stage of life.
"Because you do not what I see right now. It is a rather strange scene we're having. Do you believe in God, my fellow man?", the poignancy was as strong as the smell.
“I wouldn’t say so”, West stuttered.
“A fool. Because this wall is the only thing separating us from that. A divine iridescent being is residing here. Cherubs descending like waterfalls on my skin and the siren’s perfect pitch I can hear as well as see. The aurora is coursing through me and there you are interrupting the beatitudes with your lactose intolerance. I hear you. God does not judge but I am”, the man said and got up. A man of dark wavy hair and symmetric face with a pink healthy skin. A choir of female voices harmonized and one male voice sang with a penetrative vibrato. The man looked West in the eye, an eye which was iridescent and he was completely naked. Unconsciously West was hunching defensively on the toilet seat.
“I am Adam and nice to meet you,” he reached his hand to West, "actually you should wash your hands first", and retracted his hand.
The room was pulsing, West thought he was living inside a lung of a Buddhist monk in deep meditation. An ear rested against the restroom wall. God is that you? The chubby cherubs whispered about eternal bliss and the waves of auroral joy bathed the two. Adam’s sensed synchronicity with God and it translated into sympathy and his eyes teared. God through creatures had heard the struggles on the train -- how West's face paled and gut twisted as he resisted the urge. West was a decent man for sacrificing his temporary well-being. Somehow that was one of God’s miracles - that man could withstand the pains on behalf of empathy and that humanity were not akin to animals that went wherever the instinct appeared. Truly transcendent behaviour, civility and honour. The breathing was heavy. God leaned in as deep as he could. The wall stretched and the embodiment and image of God translated. A torso was hanging into the corporeal restroom. Water was pouring from the tap and West thought he could do with that handshake.
This piece is about horrendous traffic, served with a soft serve.
Snow was whirling and the wind was blowing from multifarious directions. If you caught the snow scene at the right time it would look like a free floating soft serve. But of course without that sweetness. The children tried and concluded the free floating kind was not desirable. Tired drivers laid themselves to rest on the steering wheels after a long day. This caused the cars to sing a honking symphony and it was so terribly unsynchronized. Friday 17:30: one conditional problem with freedom is that it makes you unable to appreciate; even though being stuck at some job is way worse than being stuck in traffic, the desire for being elsewhere makes you unable to enjoy The Now and you frown upon relative minutiae rather than upon, you know, your shitty life or you just enjoy what you have. Anyway, the trick to get home was to not stop, the antagonistic ice caused a severe deficiency in grip. Then there was one prominent car and who knows what brand, there was just too much snow to tell. The parked car was detached from all the laws of symmetric traffic - geometrically skewed 28,93 degrees relative to the preordained lines of the street, that street that further on intersected beautifully and straight, 90/90 degrees across, probably a dozen times, before connecting the newly renovated highway. On this particular interstice between two intersections the cars were parked nicely but the discordant car blocked one particular Subaru and its owner was condemning a bit of everything. This man needed to get home to his girlfriend. It was his last weekend before being relocated to Bengalore, India for an engineering job involving sustainable energy. Fucking windscreen wipers were scraping.
Traffic was slow as half of the road was blocked and they took turns to pass. Every three minutes a car would lose its grip on the icy road which forced a driver to get out and into the snow and start pushing (which was usually the driver directly behind as it was deemed the most pertinent solution to everybody’s problem, while the rest were just to watch). Incapitated vehicles accumulated in lines on the lanes and a wife ordered her husband to check whatever was going on with that “fucking car”. It was locked and the handbrake employed. The husband scooped some of the snow away and looked inside. The dashboard was brimming with a variety of found vessels holding cigarette butts. From the rear mirror a miniature dream catcher hung and in the back seat a pack of condoms was longingly waiting.
“All because of one shitty car and who keeps a fuckin’ dreamcatcher in a car?” he cussed. GPS-technology eventually redirected the traffic and soon the congestion loosened up along with the whirling snow. The tow truck never made it in time; the owner of the obstructing vehicle made an appearance and together with him, a much younger attractive girl. She was laughing at his jokes which he made with animated gestures and lots of playful physical touch. They stepped into the vehicle and the wheels directly made full contact with the ground. Carefully the car left its improvised parking spot and the ones who were the most infuriated by the event were not even there to see it resolve, they were probably stuck in some other terrible intersection. Curses.
This piece is about a giant who falls over on a city landscape and the cascading media coverage.
The giant fell backwards along with a high rise building. People in the distance caught the glance of the crumbling. During the giant’s impact there were poor souls working inside the high rise, observing the fragmentation of concrete walls. When destruction is unexpected it makes reality seem unreal and banality of not believing one’s eyes clings true as the impending death, at last it happens to us all. Giant’s blood covered the exterior and the insiders never knew. The remote observers were frozen with mouths opened, congregating the odd components of the city scene. The giant lied still amidst the dusty city ruins.
“Is anyone filming this?” a dude asked. Strangely appropriate.
Twitter was overflowing with speculation about the giant and who’s fall led to the death of thousands of people. Most of the speculation seemed to be based on pop-cultural phenomenon, like was the giant some extraterrestrial or perhaps a spawn of a weird experiment, or could it be... that it came from another dimension? These theories were not picked up by the mainstream media. From the helicopter the giant seemed like a caucasian male tourist, just huge. He was wearing cargo shorts and a black t-shirt displaying a famous beer brand which was pixelated in some media. Still, the stock of the said beer skyrocketed, unlike the dormant giant who seemed passed out. A pair of giant sunglasses was crushed in the fall. A cap had fallen off his head and absolutely smashed the entrance to a bank. Just the cost of cleaning up the street blood was estimated to be pricey but auspicious rain cleaned most of it away. A twitter influencer, or a self-proclaimed “stalwart journalist”, by the name of Mikey who coincidentally resided in the same city asked the tough question of “is this thing alive?” and went into the zone with a live feed abled through his action cam.
Mikey put on his helmet with the cam on top, tightened the velcro for the elbow pads and made sure no backpack straps would get in his way. Godspeed and the van door slid shut. The livestream watched him ascend a pile of debris. Rain had ceased but thick grey clouds were still looming. In between the intact high rise buildings were the emergency services and in between them were the media and above was the circulating helicopter. The body of the giant just laid there.
“They say he ordered tequila shots for the girls but they declined so he had to drink them all”, a journalist told Mikey. He stinked of alcohol and the giant actually looked like someone who enjoyed his tequila. Another journalist told him a rumour about a regular sized person who looked just like the giant, spotted in a drunk cell in Bangkok. Mikey approached the giant and could still sense his drunk breathing, it surprised him that everyone around was so calm.
“When you’ve worked in the industry for 30 years there are no surprises anymore”, a veteran reporter told Mikey and his stream followers. A collaborative effort managed to loot the giant’s pockets and it contained the same items as in Mikey’s pockets: a phone and keys. Mikey looked upon the giant version of his phone running the streaming software and displaying the chat between his followers. He picked up his phone from his pocket and saw the messages again but on a smaller screen. That was odd, he thought. Yet the facts were even more obvious once the drunk cell prisoner woke up - he, in an interview, told everyone he was the giant and fell backwards on a bender and was of course remorseful about the deaths.
“I’ve seen footage”, one guy wrote in the chat and linked to a video clip from last night showcasing the drunk man falling backwards on the streets of Bangkok. Mikey wondered about the giant’s key and if there was a corresponding giant’s version of his house. People looked it up online for him and they found out there was, although absurd it simply had never come into mainstream knowledge. The windows of the elevating skyscrapers looked like eyes. Did they look that way because they were designed that way or that he simply just perceived it that way?
This piece is about an explorer traversing down a forgotten golden structure.
A ritualistic dance performed by primordial creatures were depicted on the walls and the pattern of psychic and mystic lucidity spun down the dark corridors. De Vega carefully and curiously further down with his torchlight. This golden structure was hidden down below, forgotten and gorgeous with spider web, dust and moss. He wanted it and could not curb his appreciation. Every sliver of configuration was intricate, to the point where De Vega could not even comprehend how a mind could craft such beauty which made him, of course, appreciate it even more. The largest question at hand was how to reap something tangible and lasting out of this desire to claim ownership of the structure. Deeper within the inner chambers, a golden city was revealed. In the dark there were four towering Mesoamerican pyramids aligned around a mandala which were covered in the primordial pattern. Every part, even the dust, was radiantly reciprocating the torchlight with a golden blink. The centre of the mandala was a lowered altar which was surrounded by a constellation of thirty golden sculptures of nude men, stuck in a pose of running away. The twinkling dust was floating above their terrified faces. Upon the altar stood a totemic statue decorated with four lunatic faces pointing in different directions. De Vega inspected the statue with a touch of his fingertip which swapped the external nature - the pyramids were now of stone and the sculptures were alive in flesh and blood. They were shouting in a proto-variant of the extinct language of Chicbcha, and although their idiosyncratic accent, De Vega got the syntax. They wanted him to fulfil a deed of beauty, to be integrated in all that he had seen in there. His fingertip was difficult to move and was emitting a golden radiance. His reactive flailing caused the surrounding to absorb the gold, almost like a cloth absorbing liquid. The fate was to be compounded into the structure and he had no longer than a day until the cycle would be complete, they told him. Terrified De Vega failed to notice how the air carried the gold-transmuting dust.
He assumed that the statue he touched could somehow reverse this change and grabbed it was heading for the exit. The thirty natives were fearful of his torchlight, believing it possessed a Godlike quality and kept their distance. The transmutation followed his path, and so did the natives desperately shouting behind him. To him it seemed to signify that he was on the right track but as he turned around he could see their eyes filled with sadness and fear. The construct would crumble to pieces if he left, finally he heard them. De Vega did not know their God, but he did know divine beauty and asked himself if he had committed to selfish destruction. A sigh and a gulp, he turned and looked his worried followers in the eyes. His torchlight was shut and heard the darkness shriek. The heart was pounding and the silhouettes were approaching. Firms grasp reached his limbs. As he was transmuting he could only imagine how beautifully he was arranged there in the dark. The sculptures unitedly sang a song that incorporated the echo of the chambers as syncopation. Golden dust got to De Vega’s lungs and he solidified slowly coughing and choking.
This piece is about a homeless man who desires a new whole pair of pants.
Looking up, Paul was meeting eyes with a Calvin Klein billboard model, a muscular jawline-centric man in bulgy underwear. Looking down, Paul’s filthy jeans had such a surplus of holes that it could not deter the icicle of a breeze to chillingly stroke his own ever-shrinking bulge, which was now crying vibrato in D minor. Life was just inequitable as he had an impressive supply of holes but absolutely no demand in wintertime, if it was summer he would surely be rich. Paul was to pretend that he had ‘the class’ to even wear such amazing capitalistic emergent bulge-amplifying property. As his heat-integrity system exposed its vulnerabilities once more (as a December gust passed by) he snapped into his “priorities”. The diminishing bulge was unsatisfactory but he tried to see the future in a positive light - like a carrot and/or dick on a stick if you will. The rudimentary “priorities” was to steal a pair of pants and a nice subsequent pair of bulgy underwear… Hmm, yes “priorities”. The park was the perfect place for a bum like Paul with the crow and squirrel acting as his gladiator spectators and the galvanizing billboard made his bulge clutch.
“I will follow you, bulge”, he thought and clenched. The spectators - the squirrel and crow - was also set to fabulously explode, the tension (in his crotch) was reaching the critical mass.
“You have no ideas how much I envy you, my spectators - you have no need for pants'', he telepathically communicated while imagining a brand of jeans designed for crows. The memory of class filled his gladiator spirit as he entered one of the rings. A pedestrian, aha! - surely a pretentious prick, with the pork pie hat and tiger stripe pants, he thought - but just about his own size. From the leafless bush Paul emerged with a modern dagger and the tiger stripe pants were within his laceration.
This piece is about a parrot who has an epiphany.
In an Arizonian pet store the green-blue-yellow macaw parrot Daiquiri resided as a consequence of the emergent illegal exotic bird trade. People walked by tapping on his cage expecting some sort of trick. Obedient to his macaw nature but without any true understanding Daiquiri responded with an imitation of a memory and the children and parents laughed as a response.
“I am nothing but a carrot in a cage”, he cawed and did the parrot-equivalent of scratching his head, wondering wherever that ability came from. Right next to his eyes was an exquisite pattern of what seemed like stripes of a white tiger and his gaze gave away a type of reptilian kind of stupidity. He never felt adequate enough of his appliance of the million-year evolutionary descent from the dinosaur and asked the question “am I merely an echo of an echo?” out loud. The parents assumed the question was rhetorical and superfluous but the children remained inquisitive - what if that actually was an original convergence of thought? Daiquiri realized he had conjured something special when looking at the children’s enthusiastic response of jumping in rings around the cage.
“Echo, echo!” with vigor from the children and the ‘Polo’ response to the children’s ‘Marco’ from Daiquiri. This was indeed the parrot-equivalent of a eureka moment and ‘ca-cawed’ unlike any macaw, crow or t-rex he ever heard before, Daiquiri was aboard ‘choo-choo’. Such joy we ought to bring home the parents agreed to and bought the macaw parrot Daiquiri who now resides happily due to the emergence of illegal exotic bird trade and ingenious convergence of parrot thoughts.