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Paranoia Gave the World to the Birds
They took the children and taught them how to build, how to dig, how to contribute. They all knew it was coming.
Tunnels led deep into the earth with thick cement skin. Cultures crossed and adapted in an effort to proceed with master
plan to combat the common doom that loomed in the invisible distance. This is what they were taught, what they believed.
No one spoke of dissention. None discussed whether or not time was being wasted. Life had become a meaningless and utterly
endless puzzle. Massive domes capped the tunnels with wide gray walls. Windows were out of memory, the sky became a myth.
Religions stayed the same, except with more emphasis on sacrifice. Only the small children questioned the cause. Over centuries
the planet could be transversed entirely underground. Oxygen was pumped to the living sections. Pure Oxygen to the working sections.
Time stretched and tunnels collapsed. Domes decayed and poison light streamed though. The sirens blasted as reports spread of the great
eye finally spotting the world-ender. The meteor so often depicted in the children's sketches; so often left out of the adult's
conversations. The people hid in the deepest of the dank tunnels. Many were trampled and suffocated. Families were separated.
The reports predicted a survival rate of zero. The huddled masses held their breath as the ancient speakers counted down the descent.
This was to be the moment of great punctuation. The mechanical voice said, "three...two...one" and some screamed as others sobbed.
Many of the elders held their hands up to the low ceilings as the green deliverance gas seeped through the vents. The mechanical voice
said "zero".
Then nothing happened.
In the Absence of Extras
Everyone is gone. Disappeared or invisible. I don't remember exactly when, only that I woke up alone and it stayed that way.
These days I spend most of my time looking through old family albums. Or diaries. I listen to their messages. Eat their special
spoiled left-overs, look through their sock drawers. Giggle at their secrets. This is what I'm doing for now, while the thrill holds.
They stare at me, frozen from within their frames. With graduation hats on. With acne. Holding up drinks with shinny red eyes.
Their lives on pause, with all those unfinished chores, dirty floors never intended to be seen by an outsider. I find TVs
on static all of the time. Plaid-out songs stuck on repeat. Things-to-do lists. Overflowing automatic pet feeders. Overdue
Blockbuster movies. Shaggy lawns and filthy SUVs. I used to feel bad. I don't anymore.
Some places are a fun stay for a while. First the go-kart place with Johnny Walker Blue Label.
Then ugly mansions after the gun expo. But even crashing Ferraris and lobbing hand grenades gets old.
It takes a long time, but it does. Dropping bowling balls from a building onto the parked cars barely even tingles anymore.
Last summer I drove three thousand miles just to torch the Hollywood sign. I remember my hands reeking of gasoline, skin hot
from the flames. Slowly walking away backwards, just wishing someone else could see it, the glory of it. In the following months I
burned down nearly all of Vegas and then, later on, huge sections of Los Angeles, until it became tedious. It took me months of planning
and shopping. Talking to myself the whole time, hoping to develop multiple personalities or hallucinations like in the movies. Ironically,
it was during that stage that I quit smoking cigarettes, because without anybody around it seemed silly. I still smoke grass, but I rarely
finish a joint and usually nap the rest of the day. Traveling is good, it lets me not think.
The silence is what gets me the most. No fat pigeons or car alarms or leaf-blowers or annoying ice-cream man music.
Just sometimes the wind. Every step I take snaps with significance. At first I screamed for help, then joked to myself and laughed,
then cried, then sang, then cried more, now nothing. Not even whistling, not anymore. I'm somewhere near the Grand Canyon now and
I've been thinking about rooting out some heroin or something. But then I'll probably spend the rest of the time hunting for more.
Maybe I'll drown in the Colorado River. Jesus, abandonment has turned me into a tourist.
I'm desperately lonely. I need to tell jokes and call out dead-eye rock assaults. Anyone. Joan River's daughter. Anyone.
Even if I ended up killing them at least that would be something. I would lose an arm for a companion of some sort. Even
one of those gay little yippee fucking rat-dogs. Someone to see how good of a person I can be, if given the chance.
Ryan Michael Commins currently lives in Hollywood amongst the freakiest of the freaks.
He was raised on Long Island and has almost completely recovered. His day to day life includes
perfecting his pong pong and ridiculing lousy commercials. Ryan hopes to one day fall into a lengthy coma.
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