THEMES, LANGUAGE AND WRITING STYLE, MAY OFFEND SOME
Emotional Techno Fiction – Historical/Cyber Noir
[LATEST UPLOAD: Friday November 1, 2019 – 4:00 pm Central Time]
Insignificant waves rippled from the bow of a passing boat, creating a path of shimmering light to the mighty orb upon the horizon.
Queenie sighed in awe at the sun setting on the water.
The pain in her shoulder reminded Queenie of who she was, so she pushed it forward until the pain was unbearable. That too comforted Queenie.
For once, her son Tiger was not tugging at her arm, which was the reason for her aching shoulder.
The river air made her feel naked on that side of her body. Almost anatomically deformed—like a limb or vital organ had been torn from her.
The sound of him chewing food a few feet away brought a smile to her face. Seated on a piece of lumber, he looked like any other human and not her baby, the flesh and skin she made.
Beyond him, in the wharf’s corner, were the elderly couple who’d given them their leftovers. They were busy packing up their soup stall for the day.
Queenie eyed the spot with steely determination as if she could magically mark the prime real estate as hers and her son’s. It would be a perfect place for them to sleep tonight.
A beat somewhere pounded in time with her heart. It gave her the resolve she needed.
Tiker placed his foot on the head of a nail. And then he swung his other leg around and put it in front. All the while, he held his arms out to balance himself on the tin roof, which angled down to the street. If he slipped at least, there was an awning that would break his fall he scoffed.
The thought made him want to laugh out loud as he saw himself falling through the canopy and landing in the middle of the walkway.
The poor people subjected to the accident would be affected for life and fear walking beneath awnings forever. And then what if he fell on someone. How about if he shat, and or urinated himself when he landed on someone… or how about if he impaled himself on a sharp object. Then it would be a case of him having something memorable to say as he lay dying before sundown on another tedious day in the most hellish place on earth.
But today, that wasn’t a choice as he made it to the edge of the roof of Botham’s building. Reaching across a small dived for a ledge, he pulled himself up onto the flat roof of the neighboring building.
Tiker made light work of scaling Botham’s angled roof when he ran along the capping of the flat roof of the building that ran parallel until he reached a spot where he figured he could jump across to the small balcony that jutted out from Botham’s office.
Tiker steadied himself, and then he swung his arms forward and back until he could feel the energy he would generate from the motion of his arms. And then he bounced on the balls of his toes until the springing action was ready to uncoil.
He bounced once, twice, and then with all the power in his legs and abdomen, he leaped forward. His hands reached for the sky, and then they levered backward to propel his body forward before they aimed for the edge of the balcony.
As he flew, music came to carry him to his destination. A distinct beat carrying a concise notion of peace it would seem.
NEW YORK 2019
“Elton, you have someone here to see you!” Dick, the editor in chief at The Tortoise-Hawk Sports Gazette, appeared in the doorway.
“Thanks, man,” James Elton looked up from his phone. Above the partitions in the small office, he saw her blonde hair as she entered the elevator. “Oh well,” James sighed as he locked the phone and got up from his desk.
The sound of footsteps running towards him brought a smile to his face. “Dad!” Little Lazoo’s voice lifted him from where he dwelled on stuff out of his control.
Outside his office, he pocketed his phone and sunk into a crouching position, as his son Little Lazoo, because he was a chip off the old block, appeared as he rounded the partition and ran towards him.
James, his birth name, readied himself as Little Lazoo leaped with eyes shut tight. “Ouch!” the grown man wailed, not exaggerating when the child’s shoulder connected with his chest sending him flying onto his back.
Lying on the floor with his son on his chest, it dawned on the man in his late forties the significance of laying down.
It was the most comfortable position known to man—on his back. Yet, so much was made of getting up and moving—forward, on, against, away, and toward things to which we are central.
“Heya Little Lazoo,” Brittany, a bubbly brunette in her late twenties, poked her head over the partition.
Even Brittany’s sweet smile couldn’t rescue James from the funk as lay on his back.
He had just enough energy to respond to his son’s need for male bonding, parenting responsibilities, and for squeezing out five articles a week, and that was it!
Lazoo stared at the false ceiling of the office as he wriggled himself so he could get to his phone in his trouser pocket. Using his fingers, he inched his phone from his pocket until it fell into his hand. Shit! It was face down.
“Do me a solid son,” Lazoo mumbled.
“Get my phone, will ya… actually no!” Lazoo sat up with his seven-year-old son still clinging to him. Grabbing the child around the waist, he sat him beside him against the partition.
“Close your eyes,” Lazoo said in a calm voice.
“Mom said, I’m not allowed to do this dad,” the boy said with his eyes already closed.
“Yeah, I know.” The father ignored his son. “Feel that?”
“Yes, it’s the warmth of the f3quenZor, isn’t it, dad?”
“Yes, it is son. Tell me when he hear it.” Lazoo continued in his monotone.
“The music?” Little Lazoo smiled.
“Yes, son, the music!”
Note: Emotional Techno Fiction is a sub-genre of Metafiction, a construct of Postmodernism.