this story was commissioned by an anonymous darkweb client. don’t read if you don’t want to see some horrible shit. “why don’t we gore the t-boys more? whats up with that”
I always had trouble making friends. I don’t know what it is but sooner or later people get weird and I have no idea why. It’s like they smell something on me. I get a little excited sometimes, but who doesn’t?
Community college. Evening class. You stood out immediately to me. So small in your skinny jeans, always looking down at your phone. Which meant I could watch you extensively and I didn’t have to worry about ugly looks. Not that you could give a look like that. You’re perfect.
The vitals monitor beeps the countdown of the heart. Lazur sits next to the bed reading an old Lispector paperback of his mother’s, The Passion According to G.H. She was never the type to underline, but her presence is still felt. Paper is delicate and fibrous as any tissue. His mother’s hands dog-eared this page, spilled tea on that corner, and in every place the oil of her fingers lead to permanent near invisible changes.
Oh, my unknown love, remember that I was imprisoned there in the collapsed mine, and that by then the room had taken on an unutterable familiarity, like the truthful familiarity of dreams. And, as in dreams, what I can’t reproduce for you is the essential color of its atmosphere.
The shadow walks toward him, empty soles silent on the carpet.
Lazur reaches under the pile of clothes he removed from his body earlier, boxer briefs soft on the back of his hand. He pulls out his gun and aims at the shadow and pulls the trigger faster than he intended, still adjusting to his actual body, and he must have missed because the shadow keeps gliding toward him and there’s a crack on the window like the crack on his mind.
Then he sees the hole in the shadow, edges sparking around a coin of night.
If you ‘act’ the most fatal ‘act’ of your life, the most fatal act of the epoch, you are depriving your life and the epoch of their deadly seriousness. From this consideration springs my first warning advice: 1. By no means should you consent to acting yourself, to become the actor of your life.
— Günther Anders to Claude Eatherly, the pilot of Straight Flush
Lazur stares into those hell blue eyes that reflect him without iridodialysis black or hyphemic red. Pupil, iris, sclera; clean circles of control.
Bombs are associated with “colored wires”. So everyone has their own color.
Lazur = blue Cortázar = the language fits one of his backgrounds and it means something like “old stable”
Rubicon = a menacing but beautiful red word. Don’t cross him…
Calendula was the obvious name for the third character, as it is an orange flower (opposite on the color wheel from Lazur’s blue), means little clock (time is a theme of the book and Calendula seeks to minimize and control time), and it kind of sounds like Caligula. Triple significance.
A bomb is impossible to fit in the brain. So I explode it into Time + Destruction. These are impossible to fit as well, so I divide again.
Everyone has a wristwatch. Everyone carries a countdown on their arm. The mundane reflects the unspeakable.
Knowing these simple elements allows me to extrapolate the connective tissue between everything.
It’s raining but the rain is dry. It gathers on his hand, in his nails. A clicking sound. He checks his watch but his wrist is empty.
The rain is dirty and it’s too late for him. There is contamination at the deepest level. Something ticks under his pillow. He reaches under and his hand disappears behind the blank mass. He doesn’t know what is under the rock. He stares at the pillowcase where his wrist ends. The pillowcase is flat with wrinkles at the edges.