Athlete

She’s drenched in the blood of the hearts that came before his. She has rolled in the black ink of poetry written for her. Declarations of passion hang around her in the very air. She collects them as camouflage and as she leaves, she wears them out.

Her head’s on fire. She’s inside herself with anger. Things come crashing down on her but miss. She’s absent when disaster finds its mark. Arrows thud and quiver into the wall where she was standing just seconds ago. She’s a blind athlete sprinting, a speedster trailing cartoon symbols of love, death, warning labels and forgotten safe-words behind her.

She’s published cookbooks of memories. She’s painted invisible self-portraits.

For her, life’s an eighty-story building and she’s falling past floor after floor, snapping through the spider webs on the way down.

He leans out a window as she goes past.

“You’re an angel” he says.

“Angels have wings” she says, and keeps falling.



tags

Tank

The sharp angles of Sascha’s wolfish face are lit only by the instrument panels in the cockpit of the armoured tank. The dash and cams that show her the outside world don’t paint a pretty picture.

The tank is pressurized and in emergency situations, it can run for thirty hours off of a self-contained air tank in the belly. This definitely became an emergency situation twenty-six hours ago when the virals and c-bombs rained down. Other dirty weapons, some home-made, bounced and splattered in the street around her. All seven of the outdoor toxicity meters went black.

One of the cameras is dark because Pyotr’s body is draped across the lens. He was outside when the security measures sealed up the hatches.

With Pyotr dead, Sascha can drive or shoot but not both at the same time. She’s opted for driving away from the war zone. She’s been driving for a long, long time. She has four hours of air left and there is still a yellowish blue-veined haze outside the viewports.

For the first time since joining the brigade, Sascha regrets not joining the air force.



tags