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June 03, 2005
Volume 2, Issue 3
Describe for the kids a crash.
It could be physical.
It could be spiritual.
It could be psychological.
It could be all three or more.
It should be 100 words.
Michele: The Downward Spiral
She dreamed of funerals, of the pretense of mourning and the guilty glee that came as the coffin was shoved into the ground. She fantasized about dead-of-night accidents on the New Jersey Turnpike, car overturned, wheels spinning, broken glass piercing his eyes.
She dreamed of her own death then shook the thought away and replaced it with dreams of flying. Sprouting wings, flying high above everything, tasting freedom on her tongue. She landed in places that were not so dark, not so bleak. When she woke up it was always with the sinking feeling that her wings had been clipped.
Tanya: Hunting season
Speeding along on the interstate, she has time to think "What a beautiful deer!" before the inevitable "He was much nicer when he wasn't in my lane."
Then there are only squealing tires, rending steel, and breaking glass. When she opens her eyes, the car is still, sprawled diagonally across the two far right lanes.
In her lacerated and bloody condition, she can't check for herself, but the paramedic verifies for her that the score is Honda 1, Deer 0. And since this is Oklahoma, he doesn't even bat an eye when she asks him to get her the rack.
Laurence - Thirty Pounds To Go
Bob watched the man toss pizza dough up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Bob drooled.
Just thirty pounds to go, he thought. I just need thirty more pounds.
Up and down.
Bob opened his wallet and looked at The Card.
LETTUCE, WATER, AND VITAMINS it said.
Up and down.
Bob tried to remember what a pizza tasted like.
His mouth tasted lettuce.
And water.
And the bitter pills.
Up and down.
Bob swore that once reached his goal weight, he'd bomb insurance company for rejecting his gastric bypass surgery.
Up and down.
Just thirty pounds to go.
The Eschatologist: Initiation Rites
The spindly fingers of Father Quellan touched the top of his head, almost lovingly, but in a perversion of the emotion, twisting it into a selfish, mocking gesture. He flinched inwardly, mottled skin stroking his hair for a little too long.
"You've come a long way, my son."
"Thanks to your teachings, Father. The Order has been good to me."
That drew a smile, one nonetheless filled with hatred and loathing. "We have one more task for you. A trial, if you will." He paused, yellowed eyes flashing in the candlelight.
"You love us, but will you kill for us?"
Andy: 9.8
He stands, warmed by the sun, on the edge of a cliff, azure waters rippling below. He breathes in, outstretches his arms, and steadies himself against the buffeting breeze. Breathes out.
He bends his knees, potential energy building across his legs, and releases, launching himself into open air. He leans back, carving an elegant arc as he rotates through space. Falling, accelerating, he transitions to vertical perfection. With the most minor disturbance, he slips beneath the waves. The crowd cheers.
He opens his eyes.
Takes a breath.
Steps from the ledge and into the obituary page for October 30, 1929.
From the Comments: Jim Parkinson
This always seems to happen to me! I’m just trying to get some dinner, for heaven’s sake!
I followed the directions correctly. I know I left nothing to chance. But now, by an impossible twist of fate, I am speeding toward a cliff face with a damn rocket strapped to my back.
It’s too late to turn as the sheer rock races forward to meet me.
First, the excruciating crash into the rock. Second, the rocket’s explosion propels my broken body back onto the hard ground. Finally, the cliff face falls, entombing me.
Wait for it…
“Beep, beep.” Damn roadrunner!