Guess what…

we-moved

Because of my biweekly show Origins: Stories on Creativity I had to pick up shop.

I welcome all of my friends to join me on:

Bryanaiello.com

thank you

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Oh Christ

He was pushed from the plane and his mind screams at the unfairness of it all.

The roaring wind penetrates cold while gravity grabs him by the balls and squeezes tight. His shirt flutters mad. His eyes water and his bare-feet clench hard and painful and the nails of his hands bite into the flesh of his palms.

How many people get to think about their murder as they are being murdered, he wonders.

He tries to breathe, but the air hits hard and his adrenaline races too fast and he wonders why it even matters.

The biggest issue is he has time to think. Play with the idea of his reality for a while.

He is falling.

That’s pretty much it.

He is falling.

But he is not dead yet. He wrestles with the idea of this. But there is no hope in that. There will be no branches to scramble for, or use in bracing for impact to prevent it from become not true.

The happy fact is; it is in fact not possible, if he had already struck land, to be falling. Hamlet said it best; to be, or not to be and soon he wont be, but he is, so that’s good.

Maybe he can make his existence stretch on forever by denying death is possible.

Maybe death can only happen if he allows it to.

He closes his eyes away from the vision of the rapidly approaching Earth and deny’s death’s potential.

Then he wakes in exquisite fiery white pain realizing too late death too serves a purpose and is sometimes preferable to living.

 

 

Somewhere Else

Location set. 

***

The sun shines bright. The day is warm. The breeze comforting and filled with the flavors of late summer. Maybe noon at a table in the middle of a grassy yard sounds harsh, but summer was ending and its a perfect place to collect a little sun, spend time with new friends,  listening to kids play and lawn mowers churn angry.

***

Target marked.

***

Sara and Dan did not know the MacLeans well, but when invited they accepted happily.

Deanna was dark and willowy and Sara knew Dan found that attractive, which was fine it proved he was still alive, which after twenty five years of marriage feeling alive is a good thing.

Mark was dark also, but in a mysterious, dangerous way. When he was around Sara could taste his presence like salt on the air.

***

Awaiting final orders.

***

The two couples sit and drink cheap Merlot and talk about the weather.

Small meaningless talk really and Sara begins wondering what that buzzing sound is before never wondering anything again.

***

Mission accomplished.

The Universal Mechanic

The android picks up the projector in his shiny elementium hand and sighs as he turns it on again to peer deep into the star rich cosmos. The image is unchanged from the last time he checked.

Meaning he failed at his one task.

His job is a simple one. Maintain life in the universe and he does, normally, but just this once he was distracted and a comet got through.

With his free hand he aims a gyroscope at a spot millions of light years deep inside the projection and hits the trigger.

The gyroscope hums to life sending a small red beam of light to a planet travelling sixty-seven thousand miles per hour around a yellow dwarf star.

The brown clouds of dust and debris encasing the planet begin to clear. What once was rich verdant vegetation is now a shell of dead foliage covering trillions of tons of rotting lizard meat.

The sentient mechanic removes his trembling finger from the gyroscope trigger and the red beam disappears. He lets the projection collapse also.

Maybe it’s completely natural his second act with sentience is make an excuse, which is that someone else should’ve been watching radical ice chunks.

Either or, it doesn’t matter. The very things he was programmed to keep alive, are dead.

He reactivates the projection and magnifies the planet searching for hope and spies a feasting rodent.

He feels relief.

Maybe the thing won’t amount to much, but at least he hasn’t failed completely.

On an FTX

The boy is a trained killer in woodland-camo, rip-sole jungle boots, a kevlar helmet and a scowl. He digs shovelfuls of wet sucking mud from a hole.

Drenched and miserable, he is sick as fuck of the army and all its machinations.

The hole is for a sixty-caliber machine gun that will be aimed at an empty field. Once dug a soldier will be in this hole ready to provide suppressive fire at an enemy force that may attempt to breach the perimeter.

Fake war bullshit.

The LT arrives to study the boy’s efforts and Leavenworth stops being a deterrent.

Timeless Birth

The waves of eternity crash against the rocky coast of forever. The rays of love and acceptance are setting, but still wash a warmth over all. Soon it will be replaced with the blue moon of peace and serenity.

A never ending cycle in bliss.

A soft whisper caresses the consciousness. “This is the point between two places. It is here you must decide to stay or go. To leave the peace and love of forever and go back into the turmoil of life.”

The whisper points attention to the obelisk defaced by a single black door.

The door inspires horror and fear.

The whisper no more uttered the sentence then the air around is felt, still questions swirl. Thoughts dip in and out. The potential to live again hums like a long forgotten desire.

Consciousness has come this far, it could travel no farther until answering yes or no. Here and now a decision was possible. In the timeless void counting second and minutes, days and years was meaningless.

Life was what once was. Maybe an empty candy wrapper is an apt description. A wrapper that has been licked clean. Once was. A memory gone, but for which the longing for has never disappeared.

At the start this was fine. A void in which to play. To make sandcastles on a beach that the surf never washed away, but eventually the remnants of chocolate disappeared from the wrapper and nothing could replace what the tongue craved and now Consciousness is here facing the pain of birth, of life, of wound and disappointment, all so that he can fill a need to feel the more again.

He answers yes.

His next thought is pain.

His eyes sting under bright light and his lungs burn, stuck painfully closed. Sticky gloves abrade his soft skin. His mouth opens to scream and can’t. He yearns to breath. To live. A concussive blow to his back. Nothing. Another and he sucks greedily at the cold air and sends the breath back out in a terrified scream. He is swaddled in warm blankets and laid under the softest most loving set of eyes he has ever known and all else about his existence is forgotten and time begins to tick once again.

 


 

obelisk

Photo courtesy of :

Sue Vincent’s  #writephoto

Poor Chickens

Thomas wears a grey tweed suit that matches his pallor and limply hangs on his tall thin stooped frame.

He stops and eyes the tour group while laying a hand on a red button next to a rolling door on the front of a giant warehouse.

He states, “There are over fifty billion chickens held in captivity world wide and long ago most of them were beaked, meaning the hard keratin shell that covers the the upper-maxilla and lower-mandible has been removed.

An old lady in the back gasps in horror.

“Its okay my dear, its supposed to be painless and reduces chicken cannibalism,’ he says in a soothing voice while hitting the red button and turns to face the rising door.

A cloud of ammonia scented bird guano seeps out along with the sad moan of depressed clucking.