She also and weirdly, knew that his daughter was no longer ‘present’ on God’s Good Earthen Soil, either. Harietta Damiand had died in a horrible Hover accident involving several or more automobiles. She was nine at the time of her death.
He had loved her, like Daddy’s do. Or like, Daddy’s can. To complicate things, Johanna, his wife was going senile. Her sudden dementia was combatted with restructuring software and everything, but in the end, she just slipped away.
This made things more convenient for him of course, especially. Harietta had been made of God’s Good Flesh when she lived. She was made of God’s Own Good Born Silicate and now, well now, she was made of wood. Dr. Damiand, resurrected her by copying what the Intra-Portable Equiv-MRI Bot, that is, the brain software, had recorded…
Terror Is a Medium.
Waiting for the idea to make its final approach.
My feet are getting weighty inside dress shoe sneakers.
My dress is black and I can feel appendages gathering light from under me.
Somewhere I know this is being written down at the pace of my ankles on a new bit of curled up receipt.
I am walking now.
I am walking.
I hear the bombast.
Drums behind the skitter of strollers and somber cloak periodicals.
I am a pilot of which the avenue moves about me.
No longer the diligence of staring, but only to travel that course.
I will send them to the moon.
I will send them to the maelstrom.
They will grow tired of The Whirlpool when they put on their ThinkingCaps.
The Gentleman lifted his voice as if to salute, then sat up on the large black leather couch.
“Give me a command,” he said, as if in recitation at the half used detergent bottle marked ‘Lord Darbosol.’
A glass of red wine, deep in color as was his voice in pitch, stood near as the intermittent crackling of the fireplace peacefully lit the room aglow.
The red detergent bottle sat on top of its mantle like the God Piece of an altar. It bore the illustration of a big muscular working man in a white T-shirt.
The slight moans of what was left of a human being echoed throughout the splendorous oak room. Laid out between him and the fire. His moaning sounded hollow, no doubt an effect of the assorted drugs in his system. It was if the being were really trying to scream, but ended with a muffled roar, a muted cacophony of unspeakable noise barely making a sound from beyond a wall.
“Hmm, this wine is very good.”, the Gentleman said. His head tilted with latent curiosity at how the white yellow hues from the fire were so halted by the thick body of the wine…