Saturday Spotlight for October 27th, 2012
The Watchmaker's Lover - RevisionYour clockwork appendages
were cold to the touch.
The industrial complex of your mind
was grating gear against gear
where the unoiled works
kept clacking away; your atrium
was a tick-tocking machine
that counted the hours while the rust settled in.
The mainspring spiraled round
your mechanical heart tensed
so tightly it showed in your face,
in your quivering hands,
your troubled eyes.
The unlubricated escapement never
released, oxidized into place
from ages of neglect.
Your lonely footsteps echoed
under orange gaslamps submitting
to the glare of red lanterns.
Used parts are yours for the taking;
here, a hairspring; there, slender
legs under shredded petticoats.
The joints of your fingers corroded
with arthritis and green rust,
curled around curls
of Caryatids uncalibrated
to your pendulum swing.
Your flinted eyes filed flaws away,
groomed for the fluxing process.
Oscillating gears locked into place
before your backlash recoil
forced the dual mechanism apart
with shallow breaths emergin
and white trim walls
hide behind the towering stacks of books
cluttering his kitchen.
The cat purrs on the windowsill,
perking his ears when
the kettle begins to whistle.
He slathers the toast
with butter - the real kind - and
takes his tea with too much sugar,
just the way she likes it.
When the day falls cold,
she leaves with a warmth
growing in the bottom of her chest.
SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
55 Word Stories - Part One1. Roulette
Logic dictated that he had to die eventually. By bullet or bullet train, he didn't care. And end was an end.
He's heard of this condition before Quantum Immortality. One multiverse incarnate that would live forever. Him. It was just his luck that he would be saddled with eternity.
He sighed and reloaded the gun.
2. The Chase
There is no scientific name for the delay between lightning and thunder. The light flashes across the empty fields of gold followed by the crash of sound racing to keep up, to catch its always faster partner. The thunder never quite reaches its elusive lover.
I guess what I'm trying to say is come back.
Roy G. Biv hated his name. He was not, nor had he ever been, a colorful man. His gray eyes were the same shade as the gray suit he wore to hide the gray hair that fell out and stuck to his jacket.
The gray clouds gathered overhead as he pulled out a gray umbrella.