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| StoreTags: singapore, hunger, choir
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11.25.2007
We owned a junkyard that became home to some classic cars. The local law threatened to shut us down if we went through with the street derby. I said fuck it: let 'em ride. The town's butt mob of teens souped up the old loads and they hit the streets. At the finish we could hardly get them all to stop at once. Cops fingers chattered away on their cruiser’s laptops readying arrest reports.
I snuck away to Foot Locker where Kris Buss, childhood friend, had said he'd become the manager. He was smoking a joint right there in the store and burning incense on the floor under the hi-top wall. He didn't ask me to try on any shoes. He rubbed his eye socket with the heel of his palm and looked miserable. We talked about his brother Kyle who had become a high school math teacher but refused to return his phone calls.
The real manager of Foot Locker then stormed in from the storeroom door and Kris stomped out the embers. Panicked, he told us that three 747s coming in from Singapore would be landing in the cargo bay any minute now. We hurried to the back and sure enough we saw three missile-like wingless jets careening toward the mall. With ease, the planes negotiated their way through a maze of crates and palettes right up to the bay door. The windows of it were dotted with the screaming faces of the pilots, though all we could hear was the din of the quieting jets.
The landscape around us suddenly transformed as concrete monoliths lifted out of the ground, surrounding us with an array of rails and platforms like some sort of industrial amphitheater. We used the new structures to get up to the planes. The doors opened and the passengers were frenzied. Floes of half digested food and chicken broth trickled from the aisles causing the panicked to slip and grasp for each other. The flight staff struggled to keep the crowd in the jets, but they passengers were starving and could smell the mall food. The barricade broke and people leaped to their deaths. Some survived.
The last had nearly found their way out when the crew had called me to detain some priority passengers on the third plane. It was a women's black gospel choir, all of whom were much larger than me. I stretched my arms magically across a wide threshold and rubber banded them back into the plane. They were growing furious. One of them slowly morphed into a large bull and tried to ram me out of the way. The small crowd began to grow tired but their spirits were strong--they would not give up.
My eyes caught the glare of one among them. Tears welled up in her human eyes and she would not release me from her gaze. I grew weak and soon I lost my grip. As I fell to the ground I realized that, in actuality, I had been watching the whole episode from afar. The entire thing was a fantasy embedded within itself mirroring its own depiction. I looked on as a representation of myself thrashed around on the ground in pantomime. I sighed. The real me was smoking a joint and wearing a hard leather jacket. In a final attempt gather my wits about what had occurred I determined that the concrete and rails were the only other real aspects of this world. | |
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11/27/07
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mynameismud
jack123 said: "the best dream I've ever had involved me in a cafeteria in space and some breakdancing."
hahahahaha. were you in space high school in 1983?
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