ocular shift

near-future flash sci-fi

We are no longer in the drama of alienation, we are in the ecstasy of communication.

baudrillard, fatal strategies 

Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.

king james bible, daniel 5:25

he fished in his pocket for the red chip, 30 days, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling its weight, its thickness. he held back a sob that found its way out as a cackle, quickly evolving to something a little more hysterical. he should tell someone, he should celebrate. but there was no one to tell, leaving only celebration.
and then he was in his room, getting out the box.
and then he had the gear out on the bed.
there should have been a hesitation, but there wasn't.

when he put on the headset, it reflected the view in front of him: the glow of times square from behind the superstructures of manhattan, a moonless haze stretching north up the east river reflecting through his bedroom windows.
the goggles flashed a color bar onscreen as the interface loaded.
the awe of using again, after so long, plastered across his face.
the city reappeared: now, on fire.
his windows had disappeared, a rush of cold air reddened his cheeks. a symphony of explosions along the shoreline- he could almost feel the heat. black hawks firing twin M60D machine guns into the UN building. stealth jets carpet bombing central park. a sniper rifle appeared, heavy in his hands, he put the scope to his eye, smiling, and started wasting rebels, one at a time, on the williamsburg bridge.
gotta get in the action.
as he thought it, he jumped from his balcony feeling his equilibrium shift through the winter night- a weightless hover. he was fearless as he fell- the city was painted in thick strokes of deep orange and red and ash black, pastels in movement. a blast from behind shoved him to the concrete, rocks and glass scissoring his knees and palms.
the rapid fire of automatic weapons from down the block, he reached for his sidearm, letting out a burst in the direction of the sound. his pursuers made easy targets. he lept towards one struggling on the sidewalk with a gunshot to the gut.
a voice told him another world was inside.
or maybe he just wanted to see.
so he knelt down beside the writhing soldier and started examining his wound. he slid his fingers in the bullet hole and tore like he was ripping fabric. body parts slithering, he wrangled the small intestine with both hands and, holding it above his head, strangled it in two. one end opened wide like lips and he slipped it over his face.
like diving into a womb.
a heart beat above his head, the activity of organs rushing, seemingly propelling him through the spiral of membrane towards a dull pulsing white light.

he sank deeper in his mattress, sweating and shaking. his phone rang, his doorbell buzzed, he burned calories at an elevated rate while he watched the screen glow (because it's so damned exciting), morning came, and afternoon, time and things passed and came around again and passed again.
when the super came to check because his rent was a week overdue, the coroner had to be called along with the next of kin, though it took several days to track down a sister in cleveland. she couldn't take the time off work to identify the body, not that the detectives were asking.
he had gouged both his eyes from their sockets, put them back in (while he was still alive), laid down on his bed and bled to death.