ache—mostly just repeating one thing over and over— What else could you have done?
Through the past weeks they’d been louder.
Randall’s mother never said a word.
Randall felt the girl’s eyes on him now, her stuttered breathing, the film that made windows of her skin.
The birds had redoubled overhead. They circled a small circumference just above the city, black. There must have been hundreds now, suspended—a ceiling waiting to rain shit. The wings’ crick and neon cawing filled air the same way their feathers choked the light.
The girl tried to take Randall’s hand and their sweat-flushed fingers zapped.
The birds stayed just above as they moved forward. The sky had flushed a ruddy color, more blood than regal, thunder in some long drum roll slow and low all through.
Randall walked a little faster, his fat legs and ass meat rubbing, warm.
He could not stop thinking how if he walked long enough, he’d make fire. Spontaneous human combustion—his whole head set ablaze—his frazzled locks in wicks lighting the no-night firmament alive.
Behind he heard the girl there breathing, trying to keep up.
He stopped and knelt in the dirt to untie and tie his shoe. She tried again to take his hand.
Though he still slipped away, this time he sighed and scratched the moles sunk in his back. He put the tricycle down between them.
“There,” he said. “Ride that then. For a minute.”
She sat on the cracked seat and adjusted her thin legs. He couldn’t see her smile for all the hair.
They went to where the runoff ditches came together, where once the local council each year planted mums. The concrete was cracking open. The veins coagulated into lines, leading along the black, bump-battered surface down the gully to the clump of green most locals called a forest. The trees’ limbs had lost their baggage, the cells and skins all wilted, limping down. Even through the mesh of tree crap, Randall could hear the birds above.
The tricycle’s bald wheels ground against the gravel behind him, throwing off short showers of spark.
The suffered branches made a hall.
On and on with walking, Randall’s stomach queased from so much motion in their air. He named the first things that came to
mind, his own series of questions, spoke into his head—
What was new now?
When was ugly?
How had the meat aligned our eyes?
Who had been here?
Who was coming?
What could anybody want?
After each he ground his teeth and tried to keep his tongue still, but the words slid on his gums and worked his lungs open, filled him with some color heavy even on the light enclosed.
On the far side of the forest, Randall realized they were headed for the dump—a half-mile-deep gorge just outside the town where people went to ditch their junk. For years it’d all been building up there, squat in the middle of what more fervent regions might have made a landmark. They could have sequestered it off, got government funding and a proclamation, brought fat tourists from all over to buy tickets to a sight to see. Instead they fed it their condom wrappers, their plastic linings, their lint-trap crap and old foil. Randall could smell the sum there from his bedroom when the wind blew the right way.
In the sky above, slow cycling color, the birds skronked at their approach. Randall could feel each of the thousands of tiny eyes glared down upon him, wanting him forward. He heard the innard questions cannoned, cawing, making lesions on his throat.
What is who doing ever?
What’s the best thing?
Blassmix buntum veep?
They called him on along the hill, still up the half-paved path that ended not just in sanitation, but in voltage—the machines birthing all the wires hung in nest over his house. Even before they’d reached the lip of the drop-off Randall could see the steel-gray multi-paneled mongoloid of boxy mass, the unknown smog and slither burping up to join the broth of skying clog above. The air all stunk of fire, shit and oil and
Through the past weeks they’d been louder.
Randall’s mother never said a word.
Randall felt the girl’s eyes on him now, her stuttered breathing, the film that made windows of her skin.
The birds had redoubled overhead. They circled a small circumference just above the city, black. There must have been hundreds now, suspended—a ceiling waiting to rain shit. The wings’ crick and neon cawing filled air the same way their feathers choked the light.
The girl tried to take Randall’s hand and their sweat-flushed fingers zapped.
The birds stayed just above as they moved forward. The sky had flushed a ruddy color, more blood than regal, thunder in some long drum roll slow and low all through.
Randall walked a little faster, his fat legs and ass meat rubbing, warm.
He could not stop thinking how if he walked long enough, he’d make fire. Spontaneous human combustion—his whole head set ablaze—his frazzled locks in wicks lighting the no-night firmament alive.
Behind he heard the girl there breathing, trying to keep up.
He stopped and knelt in the dirt to untie and tie his shoe. She tried again to take his hand.
Though he still slipped away, this time he sighed and scratched the moles sunk in his back. He put the tricycle down between them.
“There,” he said. “Ride that then. For a minute.”
She sat on the cracked seat and adjusted her thin legs. He couldn’t see her smile for all the hair.
They went to where the runoff ditches came together, where once the local council each year planted mums. The concrete was cracking open. The veins coagulated into lines, leading along the black, bump-battered surface down the gully to the clump of green most locals called a forest. The trees’ limbs had lost their baggage, the cells and skins all wilted, limping down. Even through the mesh of tree crap, Randall could hear the birds above.
The tricycle’s bald wheels ground against the gravel behind him, throwing off short showers of spark.
The suffered branches made a hall.
On and on with walking, Randall’s stomach queased from so much motion in their air. He named the first things that came to
mind, his own series of questions, spoke into his head—
What was new now?
When was ugly?
How had the meat aligned our eyes?
Who had been here?
Who was coming?
What could anybody want?
After each he ground his teeth and tried to keep his tongue still, but the words slid on his gums and worked his lungs open, filled him with some color heavy even on the light enclosed.
On the far side of the forest, Randall realized they were headed for the dump—a half-mile-deep gorge just outside the town where people went to ditch their junk. For years it’d all been building up there, squat in the middle of what more fervent regions might have made a landmark. They could have sequestered it off, got government funding and a proclamation, brought fat tourists from all over to buy tickets to a sight to see. Instead they fed it their condom wrappers, their plastic linings, their lint-trap crap and old foil. Randall could smell the sum there from his bedroom when the wind blew the right way.
In the sky above, slow cycling color, the birds skronked at their approach. Randall could feel each of the thousands of tiny eyes glared down upon him, wanting him forward. He heard the innard questions cannoned, cawing, making lesions on his throat.
What is who doing ever?
What’s the best thing?
Blassmix buntum veep?
They called him on along the hill, still up the half-paved path that ended not just in sanitation, but in voltage—the machines birthing all the wires hung in nest over his house. Even before they’d reached the lip of the drop-off Randall could see the steel-gray multi-paneled mongoloid of boxy mass, the unknown smog and slither burping up to join the broth of skying clog above. The air all stunk of fire, shit and oil and
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