fiction time-lapse

Sci-fi too soon? Nah. The energy of this one caught my eye, so I had to figure out exactly how the characters found themselves in such a strange situation.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Su Jian

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Ninety beats per minute. Jett counted every tap on the back of his neck where his helmet strap was tied too tight.

“You hear that?” he asked.

Grim didn’t respond other than the constant swallowing, apparent by the bobbing of his neck guard.

Hands sweating in gloves gripping guns. M-something, dot something, dash something. Serial numbers weren’t Jett’s thing. He worked by touch, by grip. That’s what told him this was the right one, the right place. Keep a grip. Gotta keep a grip.

Jett kept his grip while crouching outside a door with another number: 299. The building was non-descript, repurposed, refitted, reused, like everything anymore, so no way to tell where the hell they were or what they were up against. He and Grim, that is, who sat on the other side of the door due to bad knees, rifle aimed.

One-twenty beats per minute. Above him now. Standard paneling with a vent every ten feet before the corridor turned, which wasn’t far. Should have checked. But time. That’s one thing they didn’t have. Grab the body and get out.

One-eighty beats per minute. Frantic. Something trying to escape.

“You have to fucking hear that,” Jett said.

Grim shook his head, eyes behind the dark glass of his helmet, which jutted out comically, sized for cartoon eyes.

Jett snorted a laugh.

Two hundred beats per minute. His fingers tapping on the rifle’s stock couldn’t keep up. Driving him mad, Grim’s stagnant pose driving him madder.

“Fuck it,” Jett said and kicked the door in.

He scanned the room, Grim’s presence palpable behind him. Rifles painted the room with laser scribbles, calculating, calculating, calculating, far slower than the overwhelming tempo that crescendoed when he’d opened the door.

Computer screens striated in green formed the room’s perimeter, splashing light onto keyboards, coffee mugs, crumpled papers, and . . . what the hell was that? A fan of red fogging an alcove near the back of the room. Twitching in time to the nailgun in his head.

He shot Grim a glance. “You–”

Grim was gone. The distance to the door clear but for a small jittering figure. A small man. A boy, maybe. The spot at the top of his jet-black hair smeared with a white reflection. He was almost a blur. Then Jett’s mind caught up, caught up to the now two-hundred and twenty beats per minute. That was this bot’s twitch rate, because it had to be a bot.

Jett readied his EMP round. Just one. But it would be enough for this little guy. Could be a maintenance bot malfunctioning, doing the rounds of cleanup, and this place was in need of it. It had nothing in its hands, though, except a vibration that made him dizzy.

Two-hundred and fifty beats per minute. Music lessons at the synth flashed, Jett’s hands slapped for not keeping in time, always off, always slow. Keep up. Gotta keep up. What the bot had told him, its safety guard overridden by Dad, hence the hand slapping. Smarter than us, Dad would say. Bigger than us. That last statement always emphasized by a soundless scream, which both scared and puzzled Jett when he was about the size of this thing wading through the puddle of light toward him.

“Woah,” he said, eyes flicking toward the green EMP light.

“It’s not a fucking horse,” Grim said from behind.

Jett seized at the shock, from head to toe.

To finger.

The EMP round ejected right over the head of the rogue bot-boy, carrying with it a glow to illuminate its face for a fraction of the now two-hundred and eighty beats per minute. And that face made Jett stumble back into Grim.

A scalp of implants growing cables reaching into shadow. Left eye a hollow socket, right eye monacled in blackness, but not as black as the mouth opened wide in a silent scream.

Grim shot off a burst that cut across the bot’s torso. From those wounds quicksilver filament erupted, and Jett brought up his guard, but the ropes turned back on the bot and snaked around its torso and arms, glowing, then tearing. The bot doubled in size, crawling out of its carcass, the same gaping expression aimed right at Jett. He fired off a few more rounds into the abyss to no effect.

Grim was on his side in the doorway, thrown by the transformation. He hopped to his feet, his visor not looking so funny anymore as it flicked around the room, searching for what Jett hoped was a way to get him out of this mess. Then he dashed through the door.

Two-hundred and ninety-nine beats per minute barraged Jett. Caught in a glitch of gravity and his own body malfunctioning to the cacophony, he wanted nothing more than an even number. Instead, he landed a few more rounds, which was all he could do. To that beat.

Another doubling. A chain reaction that didn’t need a catalyst anymore. The void-mouth exhausted a pressure that threw him against the wall. Monitors shattered, and glass was taken up into a cyclone stripping the walls clean.

Jett smelled that oh-so-familiar funk of the outside, a split second before the wall exploded and he was sucked out into it, propelled by the snarling giant’s scream that was not silent.

His helmet snapped off his head, so he held his breath, cycling through every projectile his M-whatever-it-was had. Muzzle flashes of every color spattered the giant bot’s face, which was so large even the room couldn’t contain it. Its body, stories tall, burst free into the highway rift, as Jett continued to fly backward, inches away from its bite.

A trail of exhaust marked Grim below, weaving through debris passing and impacting his K-whatever cycle as he headed toward him.

Jett fell. The tempo slowed. Too slow to save him from the giant? From being torn to shreds by the twisted pipes behind him? For Grim to catch him?

Jett gave into the tempo, and counted.

One of the best times writing I’ve had in a while. Maybe I need to do more rhymes? haha. Either way, I hope you enjoy this twisted fairy tale.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Rob Bliss

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

In a house so clean, no footprints could be seen, lived a girl named Molly Red, who wished her parents dead.

Why would a little girl ever wish such things? Well, have a seat, lend me your ear, and I will tell you what this tale brings.

As I said, the house was impeccably white, so utterly spotless, there was not a speck of dirt in sight. Playing outside in the dirt and grass was a favorite pastime of Molly Red, who happily played as evening fell, not yet desiring her parents dead. But when she went inside, greeting Mom and Dad, she forgot to remove her soiled shoes, and when they saw what they brought, they were far from glad.

Off to her room, she was sent with curses and swats, she kicked and punched in protest, but never got a clean shot. In her muddy shoes, sitting in her room, she faced the wall while Mom and Dad cleaned the space of toy and book and loom. The last they took was made for a girl who was sweet of smile and gentle of heart, Granny had told her when Molly looked at the curious machine, not knowing where to start.

Now it was gone, like all her things. Molly swore on her grave yet to be dug, justice soon she would sing.

The carpet the only thing to pull in ire, she gripped it her hardest until her fingers burned with fire. And burn they did but something more: A prick to her finger, which she drew to her mouth after she swore. Copper she tasted on the tip of her tongue, like a bitter and sour penny from where she was stung.

Back to the carpet she went, determined to remove every last strand until it was rent. She dyed the carpet red with her blood to give it her name, her hate, her wish of death with lack of shame. But after so much time, her fingers sore and numb, the carpet lay there like carpet does, frayed and still and dumb.

Cry she did, holding her face in her hands, wishing and wishing and wishing she could come up with a plan. Once her tears had dried and her voice was hoarse, she heard something strange: A voice from her beneath her muddy shoes, muffled and coarse. She moved her feet aside to see a single carpet strand standing up tall, all the way to her eyes. If she were standing she’d fall.

She leaped back in fright from the bloody worm that was sure to bite. But bite it did not. It wound into the semblance of a mouth, then a nose dripping with red snot. No, she thought, a mustache was what rested upon those yarn lips that would not clot.

With a quiver and twitch, those lips spoke in a hitch: “Hello, Molly Red, who wants her parents dead. I am called Captain Thread, and I owe you a wish, which I can grant, even if it goes unsaid.”

“I want no such thing!” Molly said with shock. “I love Mom and Dad, and take it back or I will turn you into a sock.”

Captain Thread answered with glee, “I can see right through your lies, wee lass, and if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be me. Now give me a hand, like Granny said you would, so I may complete the task you demand, which I should.”

Something flipped inside Molly, and she turned on a dime. Was Granny speaking to her from a realm beyond space and time?

Hypnotized Molly was, or so she thought, for she weaved quite the creature, so much more than the thread that used to be a simple jot. It formed a man, squat and surly, mustached with a Captain’s hat, claws for fingers, and a middle quite fat.

“Ah, now that is much better,” Captain Thread beamed. “‘Tis grander than I could have dreamed. Now climb on my back, for I need your will to kill and sack.”

Molly did as she was told, soon tangled in wet and cold.

They trampled out of Molly’s room, Captain Thread, and the girl, scratching walls and thrashing halls, muttering in time wishes of doom.

“Slice ’em up good,” Molly said. “Slice ’em up messy, until they’re dead.”

“I am yours to command, sweet Molly Red. Show me to their chambers, so both our bellies can be fed.”

Molly told him and told him good. When they burst through the door, old Mom and Dad were in quite the mood. Angry at first, then faces full of fright, Captain Thread tore into them with grim delight.

He spattered the walls with the gooey insides of the dreadful offenders, one would think they were soup from a blender.

Captain Thread had grown fatter, and Molly could feel she was no longer cold, heat pumped through Captain Thread and her by means so bold. She felt anew, and so did he, for they both cackled a song of revenge and victory.

The house once so clean was now spattered with Mom and Dad, quiet and empty, made Molly a little sad. It didn’t take her long to get over that, strung to Captain Thread, grisly and fat.

He spoke, “Freed me from a prison you did, and I suppose I did you. Perhaps we are clear to part ways, our slates cleaned anew?”

“But you’re fun,” Molly said. “I’m not sure I can let you go. I’ll be alone in this house, wandering to and fro.”

“Quite true,” the Captain said. “I’ve become attached. We are a pair, an unbeatable match.”

His joke made Molly laugh, and so did he, friends for a long time they knew they’d be.

“So tell me, Molly Red, surely there are others who’ve done you wrong. We can hack them to pieces like they should have been all along.”

Molly Red told him, indeed, and off they went to make more bleed.

A fun collaboration with my daughter.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Michael Lachman

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

A beat-up trailer with nothing to pull it sits stranded on a lake bed, all signs indicating that those who dwell within have given up. Clothes hang to dry on a driftwood clothesline. A tarp stretches over the trailer’s door to form an entryway of sorts, a permanence of sorts. A fire pops and sparks before two chairs where people must sit to enjoy its heat. None are there.

Though, what indicates that proposition most is what rises in the distance. A tower. Growing out of a plateau of rock and soil sprinkled with grass. A zigzagging trail leads to its front door, which would be at home in a dungeon. Railing circles each story. Darkened embrasures, too. The sky behind the tower is full of clouds that look like explosions in all but color. A nuclear blast to create a backdrop to show the ruined upper story. The third story.

It’s not the tower itself, though. It’s what’s spoken about the tower. Within a trailer that sits a day’s walk from the tower. By a big voice and a small voice. This is what they say.

“I better put the fire out,” he says.

“But I’m cold,” she says.

“You have your blankets, and even though these trailer walls are thin, there is no way you feel the fire.”

“I do.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be foolish.”

“Mommy says that’s a mean thing to say.”

“Well, Mommy isn’t around anymore.”

A log falls flat onto the fire, and it sounds like a gunshot.

She jumps into his arms and squeezes. He loves it when she’s afraid, and he feels bad for thinking that.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she says.

“You can have my blanket. It’s warm like it’s been in an oven.”

“‘Cause you farted.”

They both laugh. They both need it.

“So what if I did?”

“Then I don’t want your blanket.”

“Your loss. Now hang tight–”

“Don’t let the lake leeches bite.”

“I’ll be back. It’s not time for that yet. We still have a story yet.”

“I know. I just felt like saying it.”

“Okay.”

He opens the door. The wind rushes over him. It’s cold, but he doesn’t shiver. He puts out the fire with sand. There is so much sand. He can see the tower if he wants but chooses not to look.

“You want your teddy bear?” he asks.

“His name is Yarnie.”

“I’m not saying that word.”

“Meanie.”

“So be it.” He picks up the bear and takes one last look at the state they’re in. It doesn’t look good, he thinks.

Inside, she’s drifting. On her side, palms pressed together with her head resting on top, her mouth slightly open, as are her eyes. He could stand there forever.

She snaps awake and throws her arms open. He wishes they were for him, but he knows they are for the bear. He tosses it to her.

“Hey!” she says. “Careful.”

He just smiles and shakes his head. “So whose turn is it tonight?”

“Yarnie’s,” she says.

“Then I guess we’re turning in early, because he has no mouth to talk.”

“I’m not tired, so I’ll go.”

He hoped she’d say that. He curls up beside her and Yarnie–a name he only ever says in his head–in a bed meant for one.

“Cozy,” she says.

“Mhm.” It takes him some time to get comfortable because he wants to give her room. She doesn’t need much, the tiny thing. Seeing she looks fine, he settles down.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Ready.”

“Once there was an ocean with a magical castle in the middle. Everyone wanted to go there. People traveled from all over. They quit their jobs and sold their houses.”

“Must be some place.”

“It was. It was said to have powers to make you live forever. All you had to do was stay inside. The only problem was, once you went inside, you couldn’t come out again. And if you did, you’d turn to dust.”

“I didn’t know we were doing scary stories.”

“Oh, Daddy.” She punched his arm.

He mouths “ow” and rubs where she hit.

“Everyone made it, except for one family. Their boat broke down and no one would help them. After a few days, people started coming out of the tower. They couldn’t stand it. And, sure enough, they turned to sand. It fell and fell and fell, until there was a beach reaching all the way to the stranded family.”

“That’s a lot of dead people.”

“Uh-huh. So the family made the journey with what they could carry and no one was inside anymore, so they had the whole place to themselves. They were happy. The End.”

The wind blows sand into the trailer through a broken window. Through that window, he sees the tower. It looks more than ever like a castle.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can we try again? Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, baby. It’s a long way. We have all we need right here.”

Her stomach grumbles. “Okay.” She frowns and plays with Yarnie’s nose. “But what if it’s true? What if it does what they say?”

“I haven’t seen any dust come from it.”

“That’s my story.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I miss Mommy.”

“I know. Me, too.”

She looks so much like her. More every day. how long would it be before she became her? Would he be able to stand the sight? Would he even be around to see it? Would she make it?

Crying isn’t something she needs to see, so he looks at the wall.

“Daddy?”

He whispers to test his voice before speaking. “Yes?”

“It’s okay. We have everything we need.”

He shakes his head and looks at her despite the tears in his eyes. “We don’t. You’re right. She was right.”

He needs to see her grow up. He needs to take that chance. No matter what.

“All right,” he says.

“All right, what?”

“We’ll try again.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

My experimental/failure phase is over. Or is it? More of a straightforward narrative this time involving a synthetic man destroyed by the sun and a red-headed bird.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Xiao

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Gui dreamed of red. The color receded to the size of a fingertip, set inside a circular panel on a shadowed wall. Then blinked. He blinked back. A console arrayed with knobs and buttons sat in front of him. Gui turned a knob and flipped a switch on the console without thinking. Work only he could perform. Important work. The knobs and switches told him this. His fingers that worked the controls expertly told him this.

Cables anchored to the back of the console jittered and swayed. Some attached to the wall to his right where red lights set it panels blinked. Others attached to featureless cubes on the ceiling. The final two reached out across the sunbleached and rust-kissed hull of the machine that was his home. A vast structure that could have been a vessel at sea or a city in itself, though Gui only knew this spot.

He stopped his work to consider that thought. He studied his workspace, noting his sunken perch that led to the tunnels below, the pipes and wires and bolts stretching out in front of him and behind him. To his left, the sky was almost gray, the sun burning away the blue. At least he worked outside. At least he could see the sky.

His console beeped and the panel lights on the wall beside him strobed.

“All right, all right,” he said.

Gui went back to work as the sun crawled toward him. He made a game of it, seeing how many signals he could perform before its edge reached him, which would mark the end of his shift.

He worked furiously, moving beyond conscious speed. Soon he was an observer of his actions, his hands flying across the console, a mathematical art form he couldn’t take credit for. The cables whipped around, angered. His carefree gamification was an offense to his work. Disappointed in himself, he commanded his hands to slow.

Gui’s work was important. He couldn’t jeopardize that. The details of that information were at the edge of his mind, then lost. The cables were arteries surging with lifeblood. Gui directed the flow. Yes, that must be it.

His arms and hands exhausted after their frenetic performance, Gui decided he’d earned a break.

The sun was almost here. Gui placed his hand on the cool metal, fingertips ready to meet it.

Then something else reached him before the sun. A bird. Small with a red-capped head, it hopped over to his hand, looking down at it as if it were a quartet of worms.

“If they were,” Gui said, “they’d be too much for you, little one.”

The bird cocked its head one way, then another.

“Disagree, eh?”

The bird hopped closer and tapped its beak on his index fingernail. Then his middle, working its way across them. The bird looked up at Gui when it reached his little finger.

“Ah,” he said. “But it’s not the same, you see.” He lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers. He felt the sun. His hand held in the light, he saw something peculiar: translucency. Then shapes beneath his skin. Almost like the cables attached to his console.

“Well, that’s not right,” Gui said.

The bird appeared to shake its head, though nothing seemed right anymore.

Gui tucked his arm back in shadow. The sun would overtake him soon. It moved across the platform. Faster and faster.

The bird seemed to realize what troubled Gui and pecked at its approach. Scratched at it with its slender talons.

Eventually, the bird tired. Its beak was powdered with dust and speckled with flakes of rust. Feathers bristled as the bird’s chest rose and fell at a pace that worried Gui.

“It’s okay,” Gui said. “Thank you for trying.”

The bird ignored him and pecked and scratched at the edge of sunlight with a fury, its wings fluttering to lift it up to strike down hard.

The poor thing, Gui thought.

The sunlight had crossed Gui’s shoulder. Pleasant at first, then it burned. His skin, dry and cracked, which he hadn’t noticed in the shadow, peeled away, carried on a breeze he couldn’t feel. Finer and finer his airborne skin became. Granules carried away into the sky.

“I suppose my shift is over,” Gui said. He anticipated his submersion into the great machine, where he could rest, but nothing happened.

The bird bounced up and down, wings beating. Its red-capped head seemed redder. Like a dream.

Gui lay his hands on the console. He touched a knob. More flesh crumbled away. His concern grew as he faded. Memories, or what he thought were memories, fled to corners he could not find.

“Can you help me?” Gui asked the bird.

The bird chirped and bounced, agitated as the sunlight flooded over Gui.

“It’s all right,” Gui said. “Thank you for trying.”

Gui saw the skin lift from his face, first a membrane, then a screen of particles that muted all the details and color around him.

Not much color to be had except for the red-capped bird. It was the last thing he saw before emptiness was all he could perceive.

“I’ll be fine,” Gui said before his mouth turned to dust.

Gui’s thoughts were all he was left with, and those weren’t much. He chased them like the bird had chased the sunlight, fought them as the bird had fought the sunlight. And just like the bird, his energy dwindled to nothing. A void consumed him, dissolved him to particulate, drifting on a current, like a surge of lifeblood.

A flash of red. It receded to the size of a fingertip, set into a panel, set in shadow. It blinked.

Gui blinked to reveal a console full of knobs and buttons. He went to work, because it was work only he could perform. Important work.

From the sky bounded a small thing. A bird. Red-capped. Like a dream. No. Like a memory.

“Hello, little one,” Gui said. “I am glad to see you again.”

A second-person experiment. Maybe I’m getting out of my rut. Just maybe.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Francois Hurtubise

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

What have I done? You’re unsure of where this thought comes from, standing in a room doused in ocean hues. Looking into a room smoldering in underworld hues.

This room sits open in front of you, and you wonder if you if you opened the door. Were you returning or leaving? You face the room so think returning. Or is this the first time you’ve been here?

You look for clues to these questions. Nearest you, a chair sits against a wall. A strange place for someone to sit. You look beyond into another space that must lead to a hallway, splitting the distance between where you stand and the room in question.

In that alleged hallway, you see a hutch upon which sits a digital clock glowing with the same tones of the room. It reads 2:30. AM or PM, you wonder. The color temperature where you stand tells you AM, unless its storming outside, which it could be. You listen for rain but hear nothing. Except your breathing, which is comprised of a slow inhale and sharp exhale. You try to remedy this.

A photo sits behind the digital clock, obscured by darkness, distance, and digital interference. That’s when you notice everything shares that feature, as if you’re looking through eyes that can’t capture the resolution you need.

It makes you think of video games. Maybe you played them once. Maybe you didn’t. That dichotomy prompts your mind to dig deeper. You stop it before it delves too far. The puzzle in front of you is what you need to solve at the moment.

The wall opposite the hutch is bare except for a vent near the floor. You’re tempted to walk to it, to touch it, but changing your vantage will change your perspective, and everything in the red room will shift into something else entirely.

So you remain.

A chair, much like the one near you, sits in the room. It faces you, empty. Wooden blocks are strewn around it. Behind it, three are stacked in a pyramid configuration while three under it aren’t stacked at all. You wonder what that could mean? Construction and destruction. Togetherness and separateness. Wholeness and brokenness.

You feel none of those things.

Behind all of this, a curtain drapes from behind a rod. There is no attachment you can see. The curtain is also too long, collecting on the floor behind the chair. It moves slightly. Bulges slightly. You wonder if someone is behind it. Waiting for . . . you?

Who would be waiting for you?

Stranger still is the window behind the curtain, the fraction of it you can see. You think of a cage. Horizontal bars divided by patches of a diamond pattern. Chicken wire, you think. But thicker. To resist things larger than chickens.

The bottom of your left foot feels different. Cooler. You look down and realize you’ve taken a step. Why your left one? You look at your hands, assuming you’re right handed. Like everyone else. You don’t think you’re like everyone else.

Your hands are smooth. Soft. You check for calluses on your palms to see if you’ve lived a life of labor. You check the backs of your hands for scars to see if you’ve lived a life of turbulence.

You find neither.

You decide to move your right foot to join your left. Detaching yourself from the floorboards warm with your body heat is jarring, unsettling. Maybe it’s what you need. Maybe it isn’t.

You look up to make sure things haven’t changed. You haven’t solved the puzzle yet. Things haven’t changed much.

There is something behind the chair, near the curtain. Something you didn’t notice before. A whiteboard? If it is, it’s blank. A canvas? The light in the room isn’t any an artist would paint to. Unless . . .

You almost had it. A trace of something. Then something else catches your attention. Another detail in this room you seem to want to enter, albeit at a crawl. What appears to be another chair peeks around the corner against a wall you cannot see, and in front of it lies a mattress, a pillow, a thing upon which a body might lay.

Could there be a body in that room? Is the light indicating what you might find? You shake your head, wondering why your thoughts immediately went to the macabre. You’re not a person who thinks dark thoughts, are you?

You could be anyone. If there were a mirror, you wouldn’t look. Why are there no mirrors?

You study the carpet in the room from where you stand, looking for dots of blood. It’s clean. Unless the killing happened out of frame.

You rub your eyes, wondering why you’re thinking of yourself as a character in a film, your eyes the camera, directed to create a sense of dread for the viewer, who sees the narrative play out as you see it.

No. You hear that word, your word, your thought. You’re not a proxy. But why are you here?

You step again. Twice again. If you lean over you might be able to touch the chair. Sitting down sounds nice. You imagine it, with your back to the red room, and your skin prickles.

You leap into the hallway, unsure as to why. Like tearing off a bandage, you think. You don’t fall. You land soundly.

The time on the clock hasn’t changed. 2:30. AM, you decide. The photo behind the clock isn’t any clearer, still a digital mosaic.

You don’t bother looking to your right down the hall. That isn’t your destination. If someone is waiting there to get you, then let them have you, you think.

Two more steps bring you to the threshold of the room. The air is warmer here, the floor. You place your hands on the frame that should have hinges and a door open into the room. There are neither.

You look inside.

What have I done? That question is answered.

What do you see?

Another one that didn’t quite pan out the way I’d hoped. Maybe it was too much metaphor. Maybe it was something else. Either way, here it is.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by JiHun Lee

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

The light. Gray, softly, white, partly. A form pulled from the wall. A bench. The shadow it cast looked inviting, almost enough to crawl into. He wondered what was on the other side of that shadow, inside that shadow. Or did it end with the wall, all an illusion? A cold hard space.

He contemplated that space and who might have used it as shelter, dove into it, existed through it. He thought he would sit, listen to their tales, feel it in the stone, maybe tell some of his own, though his weren’t interesting.

No one answered. He took comfort in what he could, alone. Alone wasn’t comforting. He smiled when he heard it: voices, footsteps, laughing, sighing. He smiled when he saw it: faces to keep him company, to share this spot, for there was plenty of room. Endless room.

They didn’t ask to sit, piling around him, left and right, some even finding their spots on the ground, using the bench as a the back to the chair that was the ground.

“Nice to meet you,” one said.

Then he realized he wasn’t talking to him. His attention was beyond, directed at someone sitting beside him, and he was fine with that. The conversation, the laughter, the breath that smelled of old breakfast and coffee. Quantum particles taking every possible path, colliding with what they sought or didn’t. He was caught in the middle, a screen that they flowed through. All but a few. At least that was the explanation he told himself. Why he felt something at the back of his throat. An itch he tried to reach with his tongue. But it migrated to the back of his skull before he could scratch it, holding there, waiting. For what?

He waited for them. Patiently. The faces that looked everywhere. At the street, at each other, at the sky, at the wall. It was loud, this existence he found himself in. An observer only, and he found himself confronted only with white noise.

“Hello,” he said, thinking if he spoke, maybe they’d hear, and he was sure to enunceate clearly, evenly, and directly. The one closest to him smiled and nodded, almost caught his gaze before it slipped away to somwhere else. Someone else.

He felt the loss in the his teeth, and he thought it was the pain at the back of his skull, leaping out to taunt him, to see if he would chase it. It wasn’t. It was something else. Something new. He clamped his teeth down to catch it. Or to ignite it.

It did have the spirit of flame, writhing, searching for something to help it grow. He felt like he had discovered something. A fact that no one around him knew, and he was happy again in his solitude among the rabble.

“Hello,” he said to his hands, but those immediately went to the back of his head in response, massaging that spot at the base of his skull that suddenly hurt so bad. He closed his eyes to concentrate on it, to visualize its shape, color, size, so that he could grab hold of it. Take control of it. Mold it into what he needed it to be.

“What do I need it to be?” he said.

To his surprise the one to his right looked at him, acknowledged him as if he were more than an smudge on the wall that had been there for years. A stain.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the Right One said. “Here, let me explain.”

Right One said all manner of thing, until his words divided into letters, then to meaningless sounds, then to nothing at all but white noise.

“It does make sense,” he said, hands at the back of his head again while he worked his jaw to kick the hornet’s nest that grew there beneath the enamel, beneath the gumline.

He thought that would have been enough, to respond, to assert himself, but when he turned to address Right One, he was faced away, spewing his sounds onto someone else, and that someone else appeared pleased with the sounds, open-mouth smiling with attentive fascination.

He felt a bump on his knee, and looked down to see another pushing him aside. “Can you move over a little?” this one asked, but instead of waiting for a response, he turned to someone else, firmly planted in his new spot, which used to belong to him and him alone, back when there was plenty of room, to think, to feel, to exist.

The sensation in his jaw broke through the flesh and met the other at the back of his skull. There they intermingled, and he watched with his eyes closed, because it was the only way he could see.

Others throttled him apolegetically until his seat on the bench had been whittled down to a sliver. He envisioned that sliver as a physical object, sharp and indestructible. It had to be to finish what needed to be done. He drew it back. An arrow, a sword, a bullet. Unleashed it.

Ignition. So quick. So silent. No ringing in his ears. They lay around him. Sat around him. In heaps. He liked that word. It had impact, much like the spears had that drove through the stone wall to find flesh, to find an end. Quantum particles finding every possible path, and every path was right.

The pain was gone. The sounds were gone. The smells. He didn’t mind the one on the ground, lifeless head using his knee as a pillow. He didn’t mind the Right One lounging against him as a friend. It was an illusion, like the space beneath the bench, which he no longer sought, because he had his own space in beautiful solitude, which he had missed.

He didn’t look up to see the others, preferring the view of the ground, the area between his feet, which was vast and calm. Gray, softly. White, partly. So right.