Thursday, October 14, 2021

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Bicycle

 When the earth cracked open at the park, the little girl was swallowed inside the chasm. It wasn't my first time positioned in entropy's graceful side, and even though I knew the wrongness of what I was about to do, I didn't even flinch. I moved past her - emptying my heart of guilt and making room for a strangely familiar reprieve. Her accidental fall was but an opportunity for me. Her little bicycle, toppled at the edge of the chasm, was there for me to take.

It was a crude metallic bike with iron pedals. A bouquet of pink daisies destroyed by the the crash was scattered underneath the wheel. I remember this, because right then, apart from the daisies everything else was gray. The large stone tiles of the park, the benches, the people. The world was colorless and so was I. I knew everyone was watching me. I could feel their eyes staring - judging me, for the terrible opportunist that I am. Yet, I could not resist. I ignored those people. They were but cloudy statues in the corner of my eye. I just had to get on that bike. Get on and ride.

So I did, but once I was on, there was no turning back. I grabbed on the handles vexed to the touch of rust. They felt brittle, ready to break if I squeezed too hard. Shivering, I realized that this was a mistake. The bicycle's seat had now grown extremely tall. Suddenly, I was sitting so far high, that the clouds were right above my head and I had to hunch, in fear of the unimaginable catastrophe which would occur in the instance of touching one. The people below were ant-like figures. They were shouting and cursing, angry at me. I couldn't hear them, but I knew they did.

What horrified me most though, was when I looked down at the pedals. They had grown extremely small, or they were too far below and my legs had grown longer. I couldn't tell which one. Riding on the miniscule wheels of my new bike, I begun to lose my balance. My feet kept slipping off the pedals, and like a mad man, I kept flailing by legs in the air. Every time the bike would tilt, I'd hold my breath and stiffen my body. I would shake my knees like a bird in a desperate attempt to avoid karma's unforgiving backhand. To avoid the fall.

I have managed to keep my balance so far. But with every successful attempt, the next save is even harder. The wheels are squeaking like they're about to break and the handles are crumbling in my hands. It's the bike. I know it. It wants me off.

The chasm is still there, a few inches away from my bicycle's front wheel. There is nothing to wait for anymore. Nothing, except the singular eventuality of the terrible fall. Maybe I'll meet the little girl down there. I'll apologize then.

 

Sunday, October 3, 2021

Erik

Whenever Erik would visit Rust Alley, he'd see the donkey-headed man grinning at him. Erik would look at his big white teeth, even though he isn't supposed to, and the donkey-headed man would say a thing so weird, that the contemplation of its meaning would consume in unhealthy ways a good portion of Erik's waking life. Sometimes it would haunt his dreams too.

The donkey-headed man is three legged, blind and vast. His appendices stretch away, hiding in the shadowy corners of the alley. Heart-shaped sunglasses reflect the lamppost's light, looking back at Erik with two bright pupils, and like graffiti on a wall, his body merges with the derelict shacks behind him. He says:

Why do I hear a telephone ringing? The wiring isn't installed properly. Am I blind? Am I not deaf? Ruined by your vindication, I smile to welcome fear, for a broken messenger I am. Would you fix me with your coins?”

Then he asks for change to get his tile-like teeth whitened. Erik knows he's a crook. Everyone in Rust Alley is. But why doesn't he just ask for money? Why the cryptic lines? If it's an elaborate mendicant's trick, it works well, because Erik always gives him something. The donkey-headed man's teeth don't get any whiter though. He only gets more vast.

Erik is part-time librarian and part-time the bottom right piece of a three-man human pyramid. To make it bigger he must make more friends. He must also convince Daryl to lose some weight, or he can't be top anymore. Daryl is the answer to the question, who ate my happy thoughts? Usually asked around vanished happy thoughts. The third member of the pyramid is Kim. Kim is imaginary. She's Erik's favorite person in the whole world, while he admits he has never been anywhere away from The City. He also admits, Kim doesn't pull her weight when it comes to human pyramids, but she's always there. And she always listens to everything Erik tells her.

When Erik arrives to the tavern, he knows he's there, because he sees the sign with the serpent circling around itself, eating its tail. The Green Donut he calls it. A great place to meet friends for his pyramid. Like the regular that he is, Erik knows all of the other regulars. He enters waving intensely, while trying to provoke eye-contact with as many people as he can. There's Horatia, the canned magic bean seller, her beans have repeatedly fed the irritated beast inside Erik's swollen belly. And there's Jimiwhiskers the pirate cat, whose boat shrunk and now she's too big for it. There's Erik in the mirror. He says Hi to all of them.

With feet dancing to the band's excellent tunes, he makes his way to the bar. It's Pan's horned ghost on the piano and a pair of floating clams on additional percussion. The tap dancer accompanying them isn't top. Just tap. The Mushroom Cult is Erik's favorite live performance band, and he never shies out of karaoke nights. His favorite act is weeping at the microphone under sad piano tunes. He can always cry at will. Erik considers himself a dabbling performer.

First thing, Erik places his lantern upon the bar. He always carries a hooded lantern with him. It doesn't have a hood, but he bought it in a store in the hood, as he likes to call the assortment of civilized edifices around his house. It's a little joke of his, oftentimes used as an ice-breaker in a conversation with a potential friend. Erik's sense of humor is analogous to the amount of friends he has.

The lantern has smoked glass and inside lives Erik's saner self. Doctor Oji put him there, so Erik can have fun.

He orders two drinks. One for himself and one for Kim. He drinks both of them, then his face gently welcomes the varnished wood of the bar. Before Erik falls asleep, he tells Kim to wake him up if any friends arrive. He closes his eyes and the lantern lights up. To Erik, dreams make much more sense. 

 

* * *

 

Wednesday, July 28, 2021

An Exclusive Interview with P. H. Clockword

 

Great Adventures & Whimsical Disembowelment (GAWD) periodical probably presents an exclusive interview with belly button fluff collector and irreverent quote enthusiast, the totally existing cosmic bard, that is, sir P.H.Clockword (PHC).


GAWD: Welcome sir Clockword. It is an honor to hold you here against your will. Why is it that you rarely give interviews?

PHC: Oh but indubitably, the honor is all yours. The answer to your question is: because, I don't always exist.

GAWD: Can you elaborate?

PHC: Picture it this way: much like the poo which is cast into the abyssal waters of the toilet, only when the sphincter loosens up, so will I, vocalize my wisdom turd into the sewers of your ears, when the right amount of pressure has been released.

GAWD: Does that particular cut of your jib have to do with the fact that you're tied with unbison gut rope to the dematerializer chair?

PHC: Probably with the karmic broccoli I had for lunch.

GAWD: Fair enough. So, we all here, in the GAWD periodical, have a great admiration for your work with carrots. See that large werecarrot statue, next to Linda the spaghetti fingered secretary who's having a really hard time typing any of this down? That's a real, wild werecarrot, unrooted and embalmed with love for the hate we hoard for you. An ode to P.H. Clockword, if you will.

PHC: It's a large upside-down orange chode.

GAWD: No, look. It has a green top. That's how you can tell.

PHC: Pretty sure these are two avocados.

GAWD: Well, I guess it's a matter of perspective. We are all bold advocatos of multiple interpretations of vegetable anatomy. But enough about us, telling you about us. Please, tell us more about ourselves.

PHC: You are the highest ranking crooks of the lowest journalistic circles. The nutter of the gutter. The ink butt-stains on dung-smeared toilet paper. Your para-paparazzi drop from the skies in anachronistic parasuits celebrating a bygone era of exploding photographic machines, immortalizing in unfocused shots, curious creatures roaming the perennial halls of the Cosmic Gallery. There is no unbison. What there is, is a word describing the mere understanding of its non existence, or the subset containing every other creature which is not a bison. So, I can't really be tied here with unbison gut rope. Therefore, I'm free. Logic is taking over this interview.

GAWD: No, don't move! On the press of a button the dematerializer chair will turn you into toothpaste. See the gang of hippies smoking, completely aloof, beyond the rooking grass? Look, one of them just caught on fire. They are the Press of the Button. Having steered their journalistic career away from writing about post-vegan utopias on their cuberspace blog, they are now wholesomely engaged in covering all things button. You must have heard their monthly gazette, 'The Coat's Favorite Jewel' or at least browsed on your portable telegraph through Button App. I hear sites like 'Butt On', 'Un-Button' and 'Butt by the ton' are hugely popular these days. Unlike their failed attempt to include more brutal instruments of the law enforcement among their readers, with the short-lived, yet aptly titled issue of 'Button – but with an A and one T', the Press of the Button will press an issue about how we turned you into unholey buttons. After, I press the big red button in front of you.

PHC: You can't dematerialize me, fool. I'm an idea.

GAWD: Whose idea?

PHC: I'm my idea.

GAWD: Well, here's another idea Mr Brainstorm.

PHC: It's P.H.Clockword. But you can call me Excelsior, or Dynamotronic, or maybe something like, hey you. It's nice to keep things informal from time to time. Getting to know the people behind the punctilious mask of “The Job”.

GAWD: No! Your mind tricks won't work on us. We have been training our whole lives, slogging through reality television and cook shows. We have burned the candle in search of Prince Cohones' upskirts, the world didn't know, it didn't want to see. We know, how President Butterbutt likes to suck on Vicar Nigel’s clipped toe nails right before he goes to sleep. We know, what became of the reparation money for the children's extra-dimensional playground incident. When that photon hydra burned through and blinded the audience, who could not see, as the kids were being turned into musical confetti. We love that boat, man. In fact, we're on it right now. How'd you like that reality-bending crap I'm pulling you? Sound the horn boys, cause we're about to get all the saucy, juicy, mouthwatering, kajizzem. The public opinion is ours to steer forever Clockword. Much like this boat, it's a person-made* thing. It is over. We are ready. You will spill the beans.

PHC: Which beans?

GAWD: There is a bucket of magical beans beside you. Go ahead. Spill them! C'mon! Make my day, Clark.

PHC: Superman?

GAWD: Yes.

PHC: Fitting context.

GAWD: Thanks. Now Spill 'em.

PHC: OK, then. Here's how it unfolds. I grab the beans with one hand and with the other, I reach into your belly and remove your appendix, which was going to be a problem for you in the future either way, resulting in you feeling eternally indebted to me. Now, with a third hand, I had hidden all along in my hat, I pull a fancy bowl out of my ass, but only figuratively. Then, I use one of the flaming button hippies to set your hair on fire and place the bowl containing the beans and the better part of my college years on top. Boily-boily beans - the shameless cow is ill - I never got to meat - cause of my boily-boily beans, I sing, while I make bean-soup in your skull.

GAWD: You can't do this.

PHC: Yes, I can. I'm writing this.

GAWD: No, you're not.

PHC: Yes, I am.

GAWD: Then why do you make me disagree with you?

PHC: To build tension for the readers. Now get in that soup.

GAWD: No please, don't! Not the soup! Is it because of all the butt jokes? Look, I'm sorry. I'm a professional, dude. You can't get really creative on a daily basis. Butt jokes are beyond time. People don't need to try hard to get behind them. I'm just doing my part. You said it. You are the one actually doing all the butt jokes. I believe you. Now please, don't make me jump in the soup.

PHC: SILENCE! Your side of the story is not one half...

GAWD: Don't say it.

PHC: ...but whole.

GAWD: You said butthole.

PHC: And now, in a somersault maneuver you dive into the expanding bean soup bowl. The soup water smells of a thousand farts, as the angry beans sprout invisible threads wrapping swiftly around your flailing body.

GAWD: (incoherent screaming coming from beneath the soup surface)

PHC: You are my puppet.

GAWD: (more incoherent screaming) You sa...stic basta... (sound of raging water, a seagull having a verbal argument with a stork about the origin of babies, someone burping the arrows of time which pinpoint us all. Then silence.)




* Instead of using the term man-made thing, the author of this article decided it is important to let the people know, that person, is also a regressive term, and now prefers beingswhodenytheyaremonkeysbutstillbehavelikeones – with spaces.



Saturday, August 22, 2020

Cosmic Pariah

The one doomed to drift

    the realms of Sh'Ect

Will always repeat

    the cycle of life

    in circles of death.