Transmissions, Vol. I: “1959”

11 Mar

Okay listen.

For you to be reading this is an immense gift to me. If I were alone in a space capsule, drifting in an infinite tide, I’d still transmit nonsense into the void, to keep my brain from overheating. I need to do that cognitive dump, so the chamber can re-fill. The fact that someone wants to listen to that process is like discovering someone’s actually out there, reading me loud and clear. So first of all, thank you for that, insane person.

I have, however, set out a purpose for this digital space: it is to collect all my mental spillage, no matter how banal or self-indulgent. That means that, sooner or later, the following was bound to happen. I beg your indulgence in a bit of ridiculous creative writing, just because I was experiencing an adjective surplus and man, them descriptors need love too. I called the first of these exercises “Transmissions, Vol. I” in the hope that there may be more volumes to come, and that with each iteration they’ll improve. I honestly have no idea what to make of this week’s product; maybe you can help sift through the chaff and tell me what it means.


She sat alone on the broken statue’s head, the Thompson across her lap, drawing long and hard on her last Gauloise. Imported, you know, from France. She sighed and smoke poured out her mouth and nose. They tasted great, but Better Homes & Gardens had a few things to say about housewives who smoke. Now every time she lit up, the familiar soothing calm was spoilt with a vague guilt, like milk just gone sour. How stupid it seemed now.

She looked up at the skyline, at the skeletons of twisted metal crumbling under a curtain of fire. The sun was gone, but even here at the city limits her face was pallid in the pale and hateful light. She heard the dull sky-rumble of B52s in the distance.

She stubbed out her cigarette and stood, replacing the Thompson’s empty drum magazine, carefully sliding back the bolt, slinging it over her shoulder. Her beautiful baby. Nowadays it received all the love she had; all the love that should belong to her family, but her family was gone, and now her baby was all that kept her alive. It was a funny thing, to love a weapon as you would a child. She thought of how her Johnny would laugh, to see her now. To see her pumping rounds into a horde of scaly bastards, empty cartridges rattling past her face, side by side with Communist soldiers, screaming, howling like a banshee.

War had a way of changing a girl.

It was quiet now. She looked up at Lincoln’s headless body, sitting regally calm above her, ludicrous and majestic. He sat like a king on his blasted marble throne, surrounded by rubble, ensconced with dust. She laughed aloud in the silence and wondered how Honest Abe would feel about her using his face as a seat.

She turned, and then closed her eyes tightly against the sudden glare. She couldn’t hear it yet, but she knew in a moment she’d feel it.

Her tattered, blood-spattered gingham dress flattened against her body, her well-kept hair blew backwards, and tears were ripped from her eyes. A great bellow of dust struck her, and a second later, the shockwave slapped across the ground and knocked her footing loose. She struggled to stand. Through squinted eyes in the fading cloud, she saw the immense mushroom of flame and death blossoming over the city’s corpse, and the rumble shook her very bones. The tears flowed freely now, but she did not look away.

Standing for a long while in the glow of annihilation, she felt a swelling in her heart. She peeled back her lips and bared her teeth in a terrifying smile. They couldn’t have survived that!

As if in spite of her sudden hope, she heard a foot knock some rubble loose. She turned in an instant, her baby at her hip, her eyes flashing and wild. The velociraptor stopped and turned its head to look at her, like a bird.

There was silence for a moment, except for the earth shaking softly under their feet.

She smiled again, an animal grimace.

“Howdy doody time, motherfucker.”


2 Responses to “Transmissions, Vol. I: “1959””

  1. RedWein March 12, 2011 at 8:24 pm #

    That’s some good shit. I bet she has the Raptors head mounted on her wall.

  2. withloveandlaughter March 13, 2011 at 8:09 pm #

    “Raptors. It had to be raptors.”

    She didn’t win. No one wins against raptors. They’re too smart. Mama raptor totally just ruffled her feathers and dug in.

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