[100 Challenge] Ocean_54

Every book he opened was his book, a book he had written. He slid one from the shelf: half finished. Another: only some of the words printed, interspersed with segments of white like blank continents/oceans.

The orgone donor is in the vacant town square down on his knees in front of the statue of the virgin, coated as she is in a veil of pigeon shit. He has tired of trying to inseminate his computer screen, his loins scream for some real action. The deathly tarnish of hair frozen in mid-rustle screams to be pulsed in pearl. No one is around, a few squirrel. His seminal contribution winnows the comatose to waking. The bronze steams, her arms are coming up like twin calzones. Fleshly hips rupture through film of metal. His skin goes cold, incredibly cold. Now the orgone gallant is the one frozen, his waning dick immortalized in a bronze that has the appearance of having weathered several seasons.

I’m seeing this on the security footage, the virgin stepping up on the footstool of man-shaped metal, stepping up and then lifting another foot as though to take another step and then vanishing. I’ve replayed this sequence dozens of times. There was no break in the chronometer. The statue trades places with the man, steps up on him and disappears. That’s it. 

I wasn’t much for this kind of shit. But things had gone from sepia to black-and-white and that calls for action. I made for the Color Machine.