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It became more than I conceived. It took a life of its own. If left unchecked the time consumed tic-tac-toeing across a symmetrical grid of personalities became immeasurable. Seconds to hours, hours to weeks. Where did it stop. I was somewhere in the middle of the journey. Couldn’t remember the beginning. Couldn’t remember if there was a point. Had there been, it was dulled to the softest curb, the smoothest dip, the easiest turn tacit erosion raw and chaffing. It wasn’t numb. It was calloused. Second nature breathed this reality on me, it beat warm blood life into existence. It was spliced memories and intentions, sewn together casually so as not to overstate the gravity of choice and impulse. It became its own legacy, and my lusting appetite the voyeur and exhibitionist of the vacuous mores we sank to in our eternal climb for relevance, recognition, understanding, and purpose. The gravity sank to the pit of my groin, tightened scrotum seizing the last life before its release satiated my nerves to crystalline halos, familiar and relieved.
“Max” is a vignette written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
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He took a tentative glance at the screen again. He waited for a response. They were on the other side just wasting time. He knew it. What were they doing? He became anxious in a huff beneath his breath. He’d been at it for three hours. He sat up off the floor again and walked to the bathroom. The lights were bright day light and the vent was running. He dragged from his pipe. The incendiary tongue flicked stoic. He waited for the signal to alert him. He rubbed his crotch. Another five minutes had passed. He tried thinking about something else. A distraction. He could pay a bill. That would help. He opened another window. He listened for the signal. Glanced at the screen. It glowed in a colorful grid like a sordid and shameful all male rendition of the Brady bunch square. He couldn’t help but to refresh. He recognized a new face. Ugh, he thought, him. What’s he doing over here? He knew exactly what he was doing there, even as his contact went off line and the minutes passed. Sometimes there wasn’t a point. He may not have been ready and tempted fate too much. He may have been impatient trying to find him. Or something. Shallow as it was, fleeting and anonymous, the warmth it provided, wrapped itself around him and fired upon his flesh a memory he constantly desired.
“To Look In Vain” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All right reserved.