ZERO PARADES
field manual
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The script
1,293
Ink on metal: 'BUTANE', and a column of dates. Last refilled three days ago.
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Intimidating structures, humbled in their prime.
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Iridescent with petrol contamination.
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Iron Petal IV was playing on the television -- our heroine finally had Johnny Khasm at her mercy on the peak of Mount Raa. Karolina's foot…
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It all comes down to you, Repentful Spy. Ninety-six years of human suffering -- most of which you weren't even alive for -- it's time…
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It all happens in milliseconds. A sharp blow to your elbow, the flashlight flying out of your grasp...
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It appears to be the news, except the anchor is wearing a brown paper bag on his head.
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It doesn't have to be so hard. You wrestle with the guilt, the shame. But if you just said 'the world did this to me' -- some of that…
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It may be able to take your weight.
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It must be an extremely valuable ladder to elicit such measures.
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It rains rust when the wind picks up.
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It took significant force to knock over this chair.
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It's 96 now. There are still day labourers, and students, and soldiers, but they no longer burn calendars or shout slogans in the streets.…
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It's a long way down from here.
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It's chilly up here.
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It's never off. PSEUDOPOD has already absorbed a lifetime's worth of daytime TV.
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It's time to begin. Turn the scalpel inwards and then peer into the orifice you have made.
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Itchy.
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Its function long forgotten, the mysterious lever calls out to be used.
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Janitorial supplies would be kept in the basement, not up here.
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Jump.
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Junkmail from a tuk-tuk repair company.
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Keep up your hardcore ways and they'll have you in a bulletproof box, facing a tribunal for the crime of 'getting results'.
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Kilometres of celluloid, enough to envelope Portofiro in one vast film.
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Labours of love in thread and silk.
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Laminate flooring peels away to reveal metal beneath.
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Landslide. Unstable foundations.
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Large glass eyes, milky with cataracts, stare back.
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Last inspected: 77. The machine-spirit long departed.
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Last week's paper.
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Layers of graffiti, an artistic turf war.
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Leaves and trash jumble the gutter -- a decaying bird's nest.
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Light glints off shards of broken glass.
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Light refracts within your cornea; you are someone else, somewhere else.
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Like deep sea diver gear for immersions into the black depths of sedation.
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Like the stem of a wilting tulip, the girder bends towards the pit.
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Linens on the sofa. Someone's been working nights.
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Lineworker gloves, swollen and cracked. Signs of heavy kerosene exposure.
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Little plastic cosmonaut figurines, oddly familiar.
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Living waters rush upward, stolen from the sea.
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Loading platform ahead.
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Locked steel shutters, a door slammed shut even before your arrival.
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Locked. You're not getting out this way.
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Locks on every drawer in the desk.
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Look, around your feet.
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Looking out over the main hall, you try to imagine what it would have looked like thirty-six years ago.
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Looks climbable.
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Looks dirty, but the seams are spotless. That suit's inspected regularly.
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Looks like a gift shop.
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Looks like a good spot for an undisturbed public breakdown.
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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 13 of 26