I’ve got a mechanism for seeing called eyes, for hearing called ears, and for speaking called a mouth. But they feel disconnected. They don’t work together. A person should feel like he’s one individual. I feel like I’m many different people.
What does it all mean?
Read on for the answers ! All the answers are waiting below!
Here’s a short fiction work for the Future of Copyright Contest. It has to be published on the net so here it is, on a CC license. The whole idea of this blog is closely tied to the copyright problems (as in ‘about’ page) , so we had to take part. This here is a classic dystopian story with a post-ironic touch. Precisely 15,000 characters. Enjoy.
Even at the cinema watching that awful Going My Way, the day they met, he saw every white straying of her ungauntleted hands, could feel in his skin each saccade of her olive, her amber, her coffee-colored eyes.
He’s wasted gallons of paint thinner striking his faithful Zippo, its charred wick, virility giving way to thrift, rationed down to a little stub, the blue flame sparking about the edges in the dark, the many kinds of dark, just to see what’s happening with her face.
Each new flame, a new face.
He did this to make certain he
could not accept her offer of financial help. The gesture had touched him but it was necessary to
resist, of course, or die in his soul. But this wasn’t the only reason to piss away her birthright. He
was making a gesture of his own, a sign of ironic final binding. Let it all come down. Let them
see each other pure and lorn. This was the individual’s revenge on the mythical couple.