Tables
Those sound waves generated by the crickets, what color could they be? A synesthete might know. She might say they were green. I’m speaking into the bottom end of my cell, speaking into it while holding it aloft--I’m not even listening. I hear the crickets, and now, maybe, something else, an echo of my voice, but changed, alien and sinister, mocking me; telling me that we humans are no longer alone in this world--that we no longer have it to ourselves.
“So how long do you think we have,” I ask. At the bottom of it all, before the thrones of cruel gods there is laughter still.
“Not long,” you say. “Not long.” I can hear your voice through the headphone, even though I’m holding my cell aloft. Always so loud, I can’t think when you’re speaking, even now. I can’t concentrate. Your voice calls up all the demons from within, and I’m left with the rest of my time batting them down--whittling tiny stakes from discarded crucifixes, found atop that landfill there, the one standing between us. If you are outside, talking on your phone like I am, you can see it. They’ve installed lights on it now, blinking so as to warn off pilots. It’s grown that big. When we were kids there was no landfill, do you remember? Why there was Bobby Joe’s house, and Country Bob’s, and many others’, but they didn’t have any kids.
“How’d you make out?” I ask. How’d you make out. I know goddamn well how. You’d been telling me for years this was coming, and I just laughed along with everyone else. Laughed and said you were a fool.
“Got most of it out before China shorted.” That’s all? That’s all you’re going to say through that fucking receiver of yours? I swear it’s like you’ve hacked into my phone; it’s like you’ve become the goddamn thing. Here I’m holding it as far as my arms will let me, but it’s like you’re right here beside me now, rubbing it in, you’re rich and I’m poor, and oh how tables turn, and oh how the meek will inherit the earth.
“Yeah? That’s nice,” I say. “That’s real good,” I say.
“So how long do you think we have,” I ask. At the bottom of it all, before the thrones of cruel gods there is laughter still.
“Not long,” you say. “Not long.” I can hear your voice through the headphone, even though I’m holding my cell aloft. Always so loud, I can’t think when you’re speaking, even now. I can’t concentrate. Your voice calls up all the demons from within, and I’m left with the rest of my time batting them down--whittling tiny stakes from discarded crucifixes, found atop that landfill there, the one standing between us. If you are outside, talking on your phone like I am, you can see it. They’ve installed lights on it now, blinking so as to warn off pilots. It’s grown that big. When we were kids there was no landfill, do you remember? Why there was Bobby Joe’s house, and Country Bob’s, and many others’, but they didn’t have any kids.
“How’d you make out?” I ask. How’d you make out. I know goddamn well how. You’d been telling me for years this was coming, and I just laughed along with everyone else. Laughed and said you were a fool.
“Got most of it out before China shorted.” That’s all? That’s all you’re going to say through that fucking receiver of yours? I swear it’s like you’ve hacked into my phone; it’s like you’ve become the goddamn thing. Here I’m holding it as far as my arms will let me, but it’s like you’re right here beside me now, rubbing it in, you’re rich and I’m poor, and oh how tables turn, and oh how the meek will inherit the earth.
“Yeah? That’s nice,” I say. “That’s real good,” I say.
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