He had seventeen minutes to make the transfer–past the portcullis, tiger traps, the AI drones, and the Cinnabon stand.
He heard the sewing machine late at night and all he could imagine was her building wings.
It did not come from space–it came from an abandoned gas station in Jersey. No one could understand what it wanted.
Every inch of floor, he noticed, was covered with mismatched glasses partially full of the greenish swamp water.
Every morning the bright red ball was a little closer to the house.
There was a painting underneath the painting of the painting–sandwiched between layers of vermilion, saffron, mummy brown, virgin blood, were delicious, hidden universal secrets.
The couple upstairs whispered all the time. It seemed obvious to her that they hated one another.
Piles of paper lined the room, the desk and blocked the windows. All the same edition of the same newspaper.
“What was the sound? A squeaking violin? A woman moaning? A box of glass falling down the stairs?”
They shoveled the soup into their maws with steady enthusiasm.
“We have fifteen seconds to get through the door and get onto the platform before the death lasers open fire.”
When she lifted the sheet she was unprepared for the sudden birthday jingle.
The room was dark. He tried reading the note by the light of the oscilloscope.
It was a library made of experiences, each wrapped in brittle, crinkly skin.
When they played the game, they felt everything. Every atom in the universe, like sand–and time, like the ocean.