Locomotion

Youth stumbled this time. It was the seventh connection he unhooked. The train was slimming down to four cars now. He opened the door behind him and went in second-to-last car. No one seemed to notice him when he entered. He swirled his knife, four inches in width and nearly a foot in length, before the people’s gum-drop sweaty faces. Their eyes were glazed over and beading with fears. The knife’s paper-thin edge cut through the air with a glistening hum. Back and forth he waved it around, until he skimmed a man’s nose, causing a stream of crimson blood. The man yielded his bank notes to youth, as did everyone else aboard. Youth, now several thousand paper notes heavier, proceeded out of the car and unhinged its life line. The cars were now fading in the distance as the train rumbled over the beautiful south of France.

The train was on its way to Monaco when Youth got on. If Monaco was the next stop, Youth was just on time in collection to immediately join his brother, Helm, and race to the Riviera.

Youth opened the next door and walked in swirling his knife again, like the movement of chimney smoke in the icy winter. The next man who’s nose he cut was rather large, but did not yield his money. Youth challenged the man for his life and stuck the knife into his throat.

On the other side of the car, a man with a stowed revolver rose and shot Youth through the throat.

Almond

Chas tripped to the floor from the breaking basement stairs. It was dark, but he could see that he was surrounded by several hundred black barrels. He got to his feet, but quickly bent down as he choked on the propane fumes. He stumbled to his desk, situated in the middle of the basement, the lamp on, a sheet of paper centered. He quickly grabbed and read the message:

These barrels are filled with PGDN and wired to fifteen separate charges. Not only is this situation a bit flammable, but the Cyanide gas produced won’t be too friendly with your insides, Chas. Yes, that’s right, Chas, things just got personal.

Chas dropped the note and ran for the collapsed staircase. Unable to ascend it, he ran to the other side of his basement and shoved the window above him open. As he pulled himself up out of the darkness, he noticed the wired clock on one of the barrels. Without hesitation, he lifted himself fully out of his basement and onto his back lawn. He was done playing games. He was done following this psychopath’s rules.

So he ran through his tight backyard and emerged from the brush onto his drive. His V-Rod Muscle was sitting pretty before him and in a second he had it running and soaring into the street. And then the sirens came booming behind him. Several cars were close on him, but a few broke off towards his house. Chas barely glanced over his shoulder to see his house getting smaller in the distance as the cars toppled over his beautiful lawn and men rushed in through every entrance. They were probably to the basement door by now, descending the stairs, stumbling down off the collapsed section. The barrels before them — like giant volcanic rocks — black and smooth –

– and then the explosion — he did not hear it. He did not see it. All Chas saw was the road before him. The black asphalt suddenly fading into whiteness. And when the light cleared he was still on his bike, flying down the center of the road. His eyes were tearing up red and he was panting with stress exhaustion. Every ounce of air in his lungs was gone and it took all of about a minute to get it back. He flicked his head over his shoulder to see a fiery masterpiece behind him, expanding in all directions. The explosion was unreal to him. He felt invincible riding in front of this behemoth inferno.

He quickly covered his mouth and nose with his jacket. He could see countless people on the streets. Walking their dogs or riding their bikes, all running towards the explosion. What is it these days that draws people to destruction? All of them about to take in a breath of stale air. Their sudden comas. Their sudden heart attacks. The agonizing pain of flooding lungs. Blue lips and skin. Every last one of them was going to die. Chas could smell the almonds. He was riding — the almonds…

… he was breathing Hydrogen Cyanide. He began to panic and become dizzy.

The Car Bomb at School

I sat grasping my empty abdomen, having not eaten anything for the past eight hours. Ten more minutes of such intimate education; sitting there in class, the teacher and the student collaborative nonsense and time-wasting, with nothing better to do than stare at the bitterly inefficient second hand on the clock. She sat next to me; my girlfriend. She was blowing a bubble the size of Rhode Island and typing frantically on her phone’s minuscule keyboard. She looked to me in that moment, but her speech was abruptly cut off by an involuntary muscle spasm which pulled the wad of pink peppermint banana flavored gum to the back of her throat. She coughed it up and sputtered: I think your car just blew up. I sneezed behind my eye sockets and choked out a loud “what the fuck are you talking about?”

She leaned towards me and handed me her phone. I read the letters burning through the liquid crystal display screen: im outside rite now — nik’s car is in flames and others — fire tuck is almos her. I grabbed my back pack and was on my feet and out the door before the teacher had time to position his glasses from falling off his face. I tried not to run. Then I ran. The halls were full of kids all sitting around and feeling each other up. Super intendants smoking blunts in the corner. Everything a blur of machinery and grease, chugging and pumping past my florescent scanners. I made it to the main lobby and then the entrance. Through the glass a gust of black smoke swept across the lot. My heart fell into my pelvis and the rest of my organs followed in a migration to my feet.

I stumbled down the outside stairs as my kidneys slid past my knees. Down the lot was a firey mess where I parked my car. Around the fiasco was a group of counselors and then teachers and then students and then cops pushing past with their flaky skinned fingers. A red water blaster was rolling down the drive — alarm booming and beeping. I came close to the scene and was greedily pushing myself above people.

Before me was a car in flames. It was mine. Black. Two door. It was engulfed in flames and the two surrounding cars were demolished as well. One was flipped over. One seated a kid, who blankly stared into a swirling gaze of smoke and grass and trees and people. He was bleeding from the top of his head and just staring. Just staring ahead of him. A teacher began to shout: “Get me some tape!” He had a scruffy face and a short curly top. I felt rather offended by the shouting and turned towards my girlfriend, seeking her response: “Isn’t that your car?”

And I looked to my left from her to see that my car was in fact several spaces down from the disaster. I approached it and touched it. Made sure it was real. Speed-dialed home. Assured homeostasis. Hung up. Got in my car. Drove away with her. Towards the sun of the new day.