Tag: ++POSTCARDS

He liked to pretend he could feel the tiny computers moving inside of him. There was a obscure sense of loss every time someone came with the needle to harvest the computational pus from his infected parts. Tetanus was a nice strong bacterium, but it was very hard to breed robustly enough under lab conditions.

Once they learned how to make DNA do computing, lots of companies needed lots of DNA computers. He was only renting his body as a tetanus-computer vat for the summer. The money would buy medical insurance. He’d laugh, if it wasn’t for the lockjaw.

(double-sized postcard)

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A year since he left home. He once told someone it was the second time he’d been fired out of a small hole while covered in blood and screaming.  Returned undercover. That chemical reek has a sick sweetness. The place has gone septic. Or always was.

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Look, Orrgo, at the Earth monsters: they only eat things that are alive, even the poor plants.  And they drink the fluid that the fish fuck in.  This is a hell world.

I wonder what horrors come out of their waste holes. Perhaps… perhaps one of us should put a finger up there.

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In the times before, there was a local nutter who would walk around the shops smiling and nodding to himself, like “I understand what happens here. I belong here.” Today, with the sky gone black and the sun under attack, I envy that crazy bastard, I really do.

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I was born into the generations who lived with constant low level planetary fear. Every unexplained flash in the night sky could have been the start of nuclear war. Life seems duller now. And that’s why I bought the bombs. To brighten your nights. Smile.

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Flat gray post-funeral day, feeling like a human shovel as you dig into your mother’s hoarded life-debris. At the bottom of the midden of corner-shop crap, the book of her crimes. And you recognise your father’s chest tattoo covering its scabbed boards.

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He put the old, cold gun to the back of her head and the treasure of her memories became scattered rubies on the snow

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Radio crawls up his arm and teases pixels out of his skin. Phone in hand and a name carved in his forearm. Slapping the prickled flesh dead before an unwanted call tunes into his ear.

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The first ever time someone takes your hand, and the first thought you have is “this is everything” and the second is “what happens when it’s gone?”  The space of time between those thoughts defines the shape of your life.

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So tall, so somehow unreal, the unfathomable adults standing over us when we were small, and now they are all dead, and we look in old mirrors and see how tall and unreal and unfathomable we are now

Even to ourselves

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