This piece is about a man who really needs to visit the bathroom and has a religious experience.
Underground locomotion skidding at maximum capacity. The train segments turned one at a time with a slight successive delay, causing the passengers to sway sideways in their seats. A drop of sweat visible on the forehead of a pale man named West. The tunnel squeeze was visceral and walls stretching, only at his discretion, ad infinitum. Within soil eating dirt, an earthworm had to sooner or later be in the light of day and do you know what soil is made of? Whatever next station was, West was either dying or getting off. Zealous and miraculous clenching as 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 and people cascading and West with chaos within headed into the chaos without. It was soon about to emerge but he clenched harder to the point he could no longer feel his face.
He made it: the metal door marked by a black stick figure in a wheelchair. It was one of those public toilets where you did not have to pay anything, with implied condition and clientele. He was of respectable status - an art director for an advertising agency which was apparent on his look, a dark blue blazer in contrast with small ear extensions, beard and a flat cap and now West had to risk the optics of entering such foul place. So he opened the door and the white throne was standing shiny, tall and proud, but only due to how dirty the rest of the restroom was. With every passing sequence the will of the load exacerbated, his ass finally touched the white rim and just as he was about to release he glimpsed another ass, although clothed. An alleged male human with torn jeans and sneakers. He was on his knees and 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.
“Uh... what the?” West asked.
“Is there anybody out… or in there?” the voice was muffled by the wall but made it through coherently enough.
“Sorry but I really have to… Ugh... I cannot keep it anymore. I didn’t know anybody would be in here. I’m so sorry” a barbarous cluster reminiscent of grindcore reverberated through the handicap toilet.
“Dude! Like that is so disgusting. And rude”.
“What am I supposed to tell you -- sorry, I had no choice…”, for a second a silence befell the room and to camouflage the next wave West continued, “and uh, so what are you doing in there?”
“Fuck you”, the man in the wall responded. West reached for some paper and fumbled with it while looking at the man’s ass poking out of the wall.
“There must’ve been some dairy in that pastry I had at my client’s office. I asked if it was lactose free but I guess my client was ill-informed and...”.
“Why do you keep on talking, man? I don’t need to know. Just let me enjoy this”.
“Do you believe in God?”.
“I wouldn’t say so, no”, West rolled his eyes at this question while responding.
“You are a fool because this restroom wall is the only thing separating you from God. A divine celebration of luscious colours is residing here, cherubs like rainbow waterfalls touching my skin and I can hear a siren’s perfect pitch etc.. It reminds me of an aurora. The beatitude is coursing through me and there you are interrupting me with your lactose intolerant ass. God does not judge but I am”.
“Shit man, what are you on? LSD?”. Sound of toilet paper wiping.
“I am Adam and nice to meet you,” he responded.
But it was true, God leaned in and rested an ear against the restroom wall. Chubby cherubs whispered words akin to eternal bliss and waves of auroral joy bathed the torso of Adam hanging into the divine realm. Adam was of dark hair, symmetric and a kind face and his skin looked abnormally healthy. The breath of God was audible through the restroom. Adam’s connection to the divinity made him sense some type of synchronicity with God’s will and it translated into sympathy for West. God through the eyes of his creatures had seen West’s struggles on the train, how his 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 such pains on behalf of empathy and that humans were not shitting like animals wherever the instinct appeared. Truly transcendent behaviour. The breathing got heavier and it shifted to happy crying which freaked West out. God leaned in further as he wanted to come closer to the creatures and crashed through the wall. The embodiment and image of God translated into an older man with a neatly kept moustache and equally neatly kept slick back. His torso was hanging into the corporeal restroom. West decided not to pursue his bowel emptying any further and stood up, washed his hands and left the room. God looked to his left and saw the ass of Adam while Adam saw the ass of God.
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? No matter, he felt small. The giant woke up and groaned and wanted something for his hangover.
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.