Ordinary People

He looks out the window. The day is hot and humid, the air outside radiates like the heat of Dante’s hell. Biogenesis. A chain links him to the first cause, an unmoved mover, a fire without a spark. Do not read this line.

Gods mingle sometimes. You’ll see them on the road while you're running late. They don't care much about human affairs. They're relaxing. It's their vacation. For millennia they had duties. Not anymore. It all falls now to the one who doesn’t show.

The god who once threw lightning? Those days are over. Now he's a barista making $7.25. He puts on his faded Flash T-shirt and heads to the mall. The thunder that he used to reign no longer follows.

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Ensconced

A velvet glove cuts into red velvet, flakes of cake rolling off the side of its blade. Reflections of the world bounce off its sharp edge.

The brown bits keep rolling to the edge of the table, floating higher and lower in a sweet dance of determinism. A plate is moved beneath the raised slice, crumbs falling like white phosphorus. A small explosion rattles the plate as the cake is dropped onto it, shrapnel made from its guts go flying.

A fork comes flying in like a B-2 bomber only to cut through the remains like a deranged killer. The plate screams as the utensil rips open a glass scar.

www.shockingthesystem.com