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Fast Forward
10 August 2007 18:17The cops kick in the door.
There’s a punch as he picks up the thread. Oil on the floor. Broken lights. It’s the teeth of a shattered window and a dog barking. Seasons whip by for a few minutes and repairs accrete in time-lapse perfection like stalagmites building on the floor of a cave. The concrete stairs become butter melting in the sun as generations of feet wear their middles down. Air brakes hiss. The sun slows to a stop. The light angling into the basement stops cutting across the garish carpet.
The whistling-kettle scream of passing time jumps off the trampoline, eases back on the throttle, and begins to scab over. It starts passing at the rate it’s more accustomed to.
An ant crawls over his shoe. It turns to ash before it makes it to the other side.
He’s still temperoactive. He needs to stand still where he is for a while until the waves coalesce and reality forgets that he’s from hundreds of years ago. A little agreement between the ions and particles of his body with the quantum noise levels of this particular now.
It takes about half an hour.
Until that point, he’s a King Midas with the power to unhinge whatever he touches from time. His footprints permanently rot the carpet with a couple of size ten quotation marks made of dust and mould.
His eyes see badly cut frames of a few days back or forward as his reality oscillates to a stop like a knife thrown deep into a target. It’s an odd side-effect that has the benefit of letting get a few hints as to what kind of traffic is going through his landing pad with a few The carousel is slowing down to a stop.
When he’s sure, he takes a step forward. This is his hideout. If they know he’s jumping again, it’ll take a while before they know when he is. They’ll know where, though, and that makes this place unsafe.
It was sheer lunacy of him to make a random, unregistered, and variable jump like that but he panicked.
It’s silent outside which is odd for noontime Chicago.
tags
There’s a punch as he picks up the thread. Oil on the floor. Broken lights. It’s the teeth of a shattered window and a dog barking. Seasons whip by for a few minutes and repairs accrete in time-lapse perfection like stalagmites building on the floor of a cave. The concrete stairs become butter melting in the sun as generations of feet wear their middles down. Air brakes hiss. The sun slows to a stop. The light angling into the basement stops cutting across the garish carpet.
The whistling-kettle scream of passing time jumps off the trampoline, eases back on the throttle, and begins to scab over. It starts passing at the rate it’s more accustomed to.
An ant crawls over his shoe. It turns to ash before it makes it to the other side.
He’s still temperoactive. He needs to stand still where he is for a while until the waves coalesce and reality forgets that he’s from hundreds of years ago. A little agreement between the ions and particles of his body with the quantum noise levels of this particular now.
It takes about half an hour.
Until that point, he’s a King Midas with the power to unhinge whatever he touches from time. His footprints permanently rot the carpet with a couple of size ten quotation marks made of dust and mould.
His eyes see badly cut frames of a few days back or forward as his reality oscillates to a stop like a knife thrown deep into a target. It’s an odd side-effect that has the benefit of letting get a few hints as to what kind of traffic is going through his landing pad with a few The carousel is slowing down to a stop.
When he’s sure, he takes a step forward. This is his hideout. If they know he’s jumping again, it’ll take a while before they know when he is. They’ll know where, though, and that makes this place unsafe.
It was sheer lunacy of him to make a random, unregistered, and variable jump like that but he panicked.
It’s silent outside which is odd for noontime Chicago.
tags