.
The steam engine, while certainly small by any standard, wasn’t small enough to fit between or around any of President Lincoln’s vital organs. The doctor had considered the intestine or the liver (which, in hindsight, may have been best as it ended up being that the President couldn’t any longer ingest liquids in any traditional sense, thereby leaving the liver a sort of useless weight. The doctor consoled himself that the space the liver took up now could one day be used for further improvements). He had settled on the right lung in the end. Some of the engine’s considerable power had to be devoted in assisting the left lung make up for it’s other half’s absence but the doctor thought it was an acceptable sacrifice. A series of lead tubes snaked themselves under the skin of the President’s back, working to cycle the steam from the engine, cooling it down and removing any particles that might result from the burning of the coal. The doctor debated several methods on the eventual release of the engine’s product and eventually settled on the relatively subtle, albeit slightly rude, method of belching. While undoubtedly those around the President would notice a marked increase in this habit, no one would think to complain to the President or anyone else lest they be seen as indelicate. And it was certainly a better option than the doctor’s original, more flatulent plan.
An elaborate system of gears and pullies, the likes of which the doctor himself never thought he would see, ran up and down the President’s spine. They powered the mechanics scattered around the body; some meant to compensate for functions the President had lost to Booth’s bullet, others meant to accentuate or protect other aspects of the body. The legs were essentially pistons in a locomotive, necessary to support the imposing weight of the president’s new protective armor. A system of the War Department’s devising was grafted into the President’s left shoulder. It fed musket balls to the barrel in his forearm. His right hand was removed and replaced entirely with a mechanical substitute. Unfortunately it did not look anything natural, so the President was obliged to wear gloves regardless of the weather. The hand’s strength was adjustable though, allowing for a firm but gentle handshake for dignitaries, and a vice-like grip for defending against assailants or breaking through a jail’s iron bars. The strength was entirely dependent on the President remembering to adjust it properly. With the President’s mind not exactly what it used to be, this caused some embarrassment in the early days. A young soldier’s hand was crushed, broken in almost a dozen places, when he shook the President’s hand during a state dinner. It certainly quelled any doubts about the President’s strength after the assassination attempt, but it was not what anyone would call discreet. The President’s transformation was still very much not mentioned if it was known at all. The gloves, the belching, and the fact that the President’s iconic tophat was welded onto the armor plate of his scalp to make room for the addition mechanic that kept the pressure from building up too much in the slowly healing wound all inspired whispers and rumor. That combined with a second, public assassination attempt, this by another one of Booth’s co-conspirators, that yielded nothing more than a loud clang from the President’s breastplate meant that it was all the doctor and the President’s aides could do to keep the truth of the matter among a relative few.
It did not help that the President no longer slept, and took to leaving White House grounds on his own at night. Those who knew tried to ignore the headlines, the stories passed around pubs and brothels. About an impeccably dressed who would had bounded down Virginia Avenue, rapidly gaining on a man fleeing him on a horse. About musket fire leading policeman to a massacre of irregular Confederate saboteurs in the wood surrounding Georgetown. About locks broken at Ford’s Theatre, and a chair in the balcony overlooking the stage that at least one morning a week the owner would find shattered under the weight of something incredibly heavy.
.
Monday, November 24, 2008
"Deus ex Machina", Submission 13 by Lee Martin
How did this happen? I would seriously like to know. How Why did the industrial concrete, neon, and culture(“!”) swallow me like a giant machine?
It’s been 10 years now. I first got pulled into this place by the sheer gravity, which is directly proportional to the mass involved, the pace, and the futility. En-Why-See.
The sucking of my life was slow…so gradual I did not notice until it was too late. By the time my nails dragged against the streets and I gasped for a clean breath, I was in the belly of the automaton…crushed beneath the gears, the tires, the pizza crusts. Don’t laugh.
Nothing is impossible; I learned that once from a poster on my kindergarten classroom wall, and I never forgave that tramp of a teacher for stapling it up there. Now I’m hard-wired to hope, to expect. I can do this (?).
So I began the assembly of tools and materials. The size was poetic; slightly bigger than those suitcases the skinny business women drag across your foot in the subway.
Lights to know it’s on. A hum to know it’s working. A labor of love desperation.
You see, I kept getting pulled back into the city. At first I took off at a sprint. I woke up in Times Square with blood on my face and a fat police officer staring down at me. Up yours…help me up, asshole.
Next came a sneaky crawling…a tiptoe away. But every time I sought to leave I kept getting funneled back in, like a skinny boxer against the ropes of the ring, forever seeking escape, only to be pummeled in the face by a big black guy named Moe.
Escape…simply leaving had proven to be unsuccessful. An epiphany occurred after my 110th escape attempt, and I know not why. An angel spoke in my head. No! It was god. Maybe.
I began construction of my device at the guidance of the whispers in my ear, the impulses in my fingertips. PVC, LED. Wires, oil, gears. Ingredients Pieces Components were easy to find, there’s so much shit everywhere. Time passes. Days. Weeks. Full involvement is required for this project. It will save my life.
I still know not what this machine is for. My guidance is elusive and subtle, like the idea someone is watching you. You know they are there, but you don’t know if it’s some girl with brown hair and a lonely bed or the man with a huge knife. But you know they are there.
I trust it. I know. This time is worth it. Continued building, modification, improvement, innovation, renovation, software updates…maybe a few tubes of neon for aesthetics.
This machine will go on requiring maintenance and attention, like a child. A dirty rotten stinking child covered in LEDs and PVC piping…smoke billowing out and the outline of a reclining nude shining in glowing red neon sitting on top. Gradually the full meaning of this machine begins to form in my mind, and the betrayal is made evident; this machine exists solely to distract me from the machine I am inside…this insidious city. My machine echoes that machine. The connection between my mind and the decaying city around me is complete and conspiring. Windows and gears whispered to my mind as I slept and woke, all hours of the day, that perhaps the certain method of ensuring my everlasting prison sentence was to convince me that my machine could break my bonds. I will be forever tending my machine, my Deus ex Machina …it will be my purpose, my occupation, my livelihood, and my chains. I cannot turn back now, and I will never leave this city.
It’s been 10 years now. I first got pulled into this place by the sheer gravity, which is directly proportional to the mass involved, the pace, and the futility. En-Why-See.
The sucking of my life was slow…so gradual I did not notice until it was too late. By the time my nails dragged against the streets and I gasped for a clean breath, I was in the belly of the automaton…crushed beneath the gears, the tires, the pizza crusts. Don’t laugh.
Nothing is impossible; I learned that once from a poster on my kindergarten classroom wall, and I never forgave that tramp of a teacher for stapling it up there. Now I’m hard-wired to hope, to expect. I can do this (?).
So I began the assembly of tools and materials. The size was poetic; slightly bigger than those suitcases the skinny business women drag across your foot in the subway.
Lights to know it’s on. A hum to know it’s working. A labor of love desperation.
You see, I kept getting pulled back into the city. At first I took off at a sprint. I woke up in Times Square with blood on my face and a fat police officer staring down at me. Up yours…help me up, asshole.
Next came a sneaky crawling…a tiptoe away. But every time I sought to leave I kept getting funneled back in, like a skinny boxer against the ropes of the ring, forever seeking escape, only to be pummeled in the face by a big black guy named Moe.
Escape…simply leaving had proven to be unsuccessful. An epiphany occurred after my 110th escape attempt, and I know not why. An angel spoke in my head. No! It was god. Maybe.
I began construction of my device at the guidance of the whispers in my ear, the impulses in my fingertips. PVC, LED. Wires, oil, gears. Ingredients Pieces Components were easy to find, there’s so much shit everywhere. Time passes. Days. Weeks. Full involvement is required for this project. It will save my life.
I still know not what this machine is for. My guidance is elusive and subtle, like the idea someone is watching you. You know they are there, but you don’t know if it’s some girl with brown hair and a lonely bed or the man with a huge knife. But you know they are there.
I trust it. I know. This time is worth it. Continued building, modification, improvement, innovation, renovation, software updates…maybe a few tubes of neon for aesthetics.
This machine will go on requiring maintenance and attention, like a child. A dirty rotten stinking child covered in LEDs and PVC piping…smoke billowing out and the outline of a reclining nude shining in glowing red neon sitting on top. Gradually the full meaning of this machine begins to form in my mind, and the betrayal is made evident; this machine exists solely to distract me from the machine I am inside…this insidious city. My machine echoes that machine. The connection between my mind and the decaying city around me is complete and conspiring. Windows and gears whispered to my mind as I slept and woke, all hours of the day, that perhaps the certain method of ensuring my everlasting prison sentence was to convince me that my machine could break my bonds. I will be forever tending my machine, my Deus ex Machina …it will be my purpose, my occupation, my livelihood, and my chains. I cannot turn back now, and I will never leave this city.
Monday, November 3, 2008
A Prayer for Eric, Submission 12 by Brian Zook
.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” said Lance.
Julia remembered something, smirked a little, then realized that it was inappropriate. But the irony was too juicy not to share. “He always liked the song Don’t Fear the Reaper,” she said, “but I’m sure he wasn’t intending to die in a stupid convenience store robbery gone awry. It’s just so senseless.”
“So what happened?” asked Lance, turning to Eric’s now-widow.
Rose knew she would have to explain what she knew of the events many times more, and dreaded it. She would skip the details: “Eric went into the store at around 11:00 to get who-knows-what. It was him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apparently there was a scuffle between the clerk and the would-be robber and the gun went off. The bullet hit him in the neck and he bled to death before the paramedics arrived.”
All three looked somberly at the empty table.
The silence was broken a few seconds later by Julia. “Eric’s in a better place.”
“How do you know?” asked Rose. “You know Eric wasn’t particularly religious.”
“I don’t. It’s just something you say.”
“It sounds comforting, but I’m not sure it is.”
“But what if he did happen to have a conversion experience right before he went into the store?” Lance piped in.
“Do you need a conversion experience to go to heaven—assuming that’s what you meant by ‘a better place’?” asked Rose, turning to Julia.
“I suppose not,” Julia responded. “It’s just such a huge unknown. It makes you wonder how fragile life is and what it all means—spiritually. Does life just end or does the spirit live on?”
Lance reached over and gently squeezed Julia’s hand.
“Anyway, now is probably not the time to speculate about Eric’s spiritual condition and eternal resting place,” remarked Rose. “I’m just…I can’t believe he’s gone.”
They returned to staring at the table. Julia said a little prayer for Eric.
.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” said Lance.
Julia remembered something, smirked a little, then realized that it was inappropriate. But the irony was too juicy not to share. “He always liked the song Don’t Fear the Reaper,” she said, “but I’m sure he wasn’t intending to die in a stupid convenience store robbery gone awry. It’s just so senseless.”
“So what happened?” asked Lance, turning to Eric’s now-widow.
Rose knew she would have to explain what she knew of the events many times more, and dreaded it. She would skip the details: “Eric went into the store at around 11:00 to get who-knows-what. It was him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apparently there was a scuffle between the clerk and the would-be robber and the gun went off. The bullet hit him in the neck and he bled to death before the paramedics arrived.”
All three looked somberly at the empty table.
The silence was broken a few seconds later by Julia. “Eric’s in a better place.”
“How do you know?” asked Rose. “You know Eric wasn’t particularly religious.”
“I don’t. It’s just something you say.”
“It sounds comforting, but I’m not sure it is.”
“But what if he did happen to have a conversion experience right before he went into the store?” Lance piped in.
“Do you need a conversion experience to go to heaven—assuming that’s what you meant by ‘a better place’?” asked Rose, turning to Julia.
“I suppose not,” Julia responded. “It’s just such a huge unknown. It makes you wonder how fragile life is and what it all means—spiritually. Does life just end or does the spirit live on?”
Lance reached over and gently squeezed Julia’s hand.
“Anyway, now is probably not the time to speculate about Eric’s spiritual condition and eternal resting place,” remarked Rose. “I’m just…I can’t believe he’s gone.”
They returned to staring at the table. Julia said a little prayer for Eric.
.
On Our Side, Submission 12 by Lee Martin
.
A man with red skin sat at the end of an iron table covered in claw marks. His muscular arms slowly lifted his sword from its sheath an placed in on the table with a crisp metallic clatter; his hands ached and his cheeks burned. Guttural grunts pushed out of his nostrils like a bull’s. Another man glided into the dark chamber, crowned in gold with a flowing pure white robe.
“Good evening Purrós,” said the man in white bluntly as he sat at the other end of the dark table. “Still dining on blood, I see.” The red man’s eyes warmed with red light as soft bloody tears welled. “What? What has happened?” asked the man in white urgently.
“He’s dead.”
“Who?” asked the man in white gently, his strong voice the room.
“Thánatos. I just heard.”
The man in white sat with his alabaster face hardened on Purrós.
Sharp footfalls on rough hewn stone pieced the air. The two men listened as the steps approached. The ancient door groaned as it was open.
“Mélas, come. Come hear the news,” said the man in white. “Our great brother is dead.”
Mélas sat in the middle of the long table, his dark leathery skin and black armor blending into the tabletop.
“Please, eat!” said the man in white, with a smooth wave of his arm across the table, indicating the evening’s feast.
“Thank you Leukós, I think I’ll pass…not hungry,” said Mélas. Leukós let out a deep explosive laugh.
Small brown servants brought out a screaming man chained to a platter.
“Do you mind?” asked Leukós, eyebrows raised at Purrós. Red hands reluctantly grasped the hilt of the sword and slid it slowly into the belly of the screaming man. Leukós’ eyes closed in delight of the fading screams of agony. The man made one final jerk as the sword was removed, leaking rivers of rusty blood along the table.
“You were saying?” prompted Mélas, softly drumming his dark boney fingers on the table.
“Yes. Our brother Purrós just informed me of the recent passing of Thánatos.” Leukós paused to slide a white finger across a small stream of blood on the table. He brought the finger to his mouth and licked it clean. “What our brother Purrós fails to realize is that the death of Thánatos comes as no surprise to me. Oh, for ‘God’s sake,’ Purrós, eat something! You know Mélas won’t! Yes, dead. But as you both should know, dying is of little concern to us. Why, just this morning I was thinking about trying it myself before we begin! Instead, however, I thought I’d let Thánatos have the honors.”
The room was briefly filled with soft chewing sounds from Leukós’ end of the table.
“Thánatos had been sick for a while. I think it was Apathy. At first I thought to rid our brother of such malaise, but it gave his skin such a fine grayish-green hue!” Leukós smiled wide, his ivory teeth bared like hungry fangs. “And to think the kind of pestilence he spread in his final days! Ugh, I am almost jealous. I really think his passing could be an asset to this institution. You see, Purrós, simply goading men into plunging swords in each other’s bellies is but one instrument at our disposal, and you execute it marveolously. And just look at Mélas and all he has accomplished!” Leukós paused, his nose raised in the air. “Do you smell that? Ahhh…rotting flesh…disease…he smells of death itself!”
A ghastly figure limped into the room, filling the air with a putrid stench that filled the brothers with a renewed vigor.
“May I present your ‘dead’ brother, his powers of influence greatly magnified by his recent passing!” cried Leukós is triumph. The greenish walking corpse took a seat across from Mélas. Purrós smiled happily at the sight. The small brown servants clutched their throats as airborne sickness exuded by Thánatos overtook them. Their brown skin already began turning black with decay.
“Brothers! We are reunited once more. Rejoice in our company, for tomorrow our conquest will begin anew. I feel we will each die before we are done, but Death is on our side!”
.
A man with red skin sat at the end of an iron table covered in claw marks. His muscular arms slowly lifted his sword from its sheath an placed in on the table with a crisp metallic clatter; his hands ached and his cheeks burned. Guttural grunts pushed out of his nostrils like a bull’s. Another man glided into the dark chamber, crowned in gold with a flowing pure white robe.
“Good evening Purrós,” said the man in white bluntly as he sat at the other end of the dark table. “Still dining on blood, I see.” The red man’s eyes warmed with red light as soft bloody tears welled. “What? What has happened?” asked the man in white urgently.
“He’s dead.”
“Who?” asked the man in white gently, his strong voice the room.
“Thánatos. I just heard.”
The man in white sat with his alabaster face hardened on Purrós.
Sharp footfalls on rough hewn stone pieced the air. The two men listened as the steps approached. The ancient door groaned as it was open.
“Mélas, come. Come hear the news,” said the man in white. “Our great brother is dead.”
Mélas sat in the middle of the long table, his dark leathery skin and black armor blending into the tabletop.
“Please, eat!” said the man in white, with a smooth wave of his arm across the table, indicating the evening’s feast.
“Thank you Leukós, I think I’ll pass…not hungry,” said Mélas. Leukós let out a deep explosive laugh.
Small brown servants brought out a screaming man chained to a platter.
“Do you mind?” asked Leukós, eyebrows raised at Purrós. Red hands reluctantly grasped the hilt of the sword and slid it slowly into the belly of the screaming man. Leukós’ eyes closed in delight of the fading screams of agony. The man made one final jerk as the sword was removed, leaking rivers of rusty blood along the table.
“You were saying?” prompted Mélas, softly drumming his dark boney fingers on the table.
“Yes. Our brother Purrós just informed me of the recent passing of Thánatos.” Leukós paused to slide a white finger across a small stream of blood on the table. He brought the finger to his mouth and licked it clean. “What our brother Purrós fails to realize is that the death of Thánatos comes as no surprise to me. Oh, for ‘God’s sake,’ Purrós, eat something! You know Mélas won’t! Yes, dead. But as you both should know, dying is of little concern to us. Why, just this morning I was thinking about trying it myself before we begin! Instead, however, I thought I’d let Thánatos have the honors.”
The room was briefly filled with soft chewing sounds from Leukós’ end of the table.
“Thánatos had been sick for a while. I think it was Apathy. At first I thought to rid our brother of such malaise, but it gave his skin such a fine grayish-green hue!” Leukós smiled wide, his ivory teeth bared like hungry fangs. “And to think the kind of pestilence he spread in his final days! Ugh, I am almost jealous. I really think his passing could be an asset to this institution. You see, Purrós, simply goading men into plunging swords in each other’s bellies is but one instrument at our disposal, and you execute it marveolously. And just look at Mélas and all he has accomplished!” Leukós paused, his nose raised in the air. “Do you smell that? Ahhh…rotting flesh…disease…he smells of death itself!”
A ghastly figure limped into the room, filling the air with a putrid stench that filled the brothers with a renewed vigor.
“May I present your ‘dead’ brother, his powers of influence greatly magnified by his recent passing!” cried Leukós is triumph. The greenish walking corpse took a seat across from Mélas. Purrós smiled happily at the sight. The small brown servants clutched their throats as airborne sickness exuded by Thánatos overtook them. Their brown skin already began turning black with decay.
“Brothers! We are reunited once more. Rejoice in our company, for tomorrow our conquest will begin anew. I feel we will each die before we are done, but Death is on our side!”
.
Party Over Here, Submission 12 by Charlie Arnold
.
From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Dudes night this Friday. I’m talking cards, beer, shots… bars?
From: Scott
To: Sean, Steve, William
Fuck girls tonight. I just want to dance.
From: Sean
To: Scott, Steve, William
Does that mean only cards and alcohol?
From: William
To: Sean, Scott, Steve
I’m down
From: Scott
To: William, Sean, Steve
I’ve got some things to do but I’ll be there.
From: Sean
To: Scott, William, Steve
Ok. My place at 9.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
P A R T Y ‘cause we got to.
From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Somebody got it.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
Scott’s phone must be blowing up now with all the messages.
From: William
To: Steve, Sean, Scott
Scott couldn’t make it because as his plane was flying home over the Sea of Japan it was shot down
.
From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Dudes night this Friday. I’m talking cards, beer, shots… bars?
From: Scott
To: Sean, Steve, William
Fuck girls tonight. I just want to dance.
From: Sean
To: Scott, Steve, William
Does that mean only cards and alcohol?
From: William
To: Sean, Scott, Steve
I’m down
From: Scott
To: William, Sean, Steve
I’ve got some things to do but I’ll be there.
From: Sean
To: Scott, William, Steve
Ok. My place at 9.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
P A R T Y ‘cause we got to.
From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Somebody got it.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
Scott’s phone must be blowing up now with all the messages.
From: William
To: Steve, Sean, Scott
Scott couldn’t make it because as his plane was flying home over the Sea of Japan it was shot down
.
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