The Vantage Of Beyond
By H. C. Turk
No one will admit to voting for him. No one complains when he is tied to the station wagon's bumper and dragged away. Toward the end, they decide to drive past the gallows and continue to the engineer. Some of the best journeys are not in where you arrive, but what you bypass. That was part of his campaign slogan.
Arriving at the dam, they prepare him for questioning. I just open the locks after seeing their credentials. I'm no engineer.
Before the reservoir, above surrounding land, facing the waterway, a double opposing trio of pertinent shapes. Only the engineer can control a flood. Since the weather has been dry, his car collection is parked inside the flood room on a sloping floor against the wall. Everything is concrete block, and porous. You can't stop everything. Some things have to be let through.
As the authorities talk to him on a balcony looking down, the engineer instructs me to get the cars out, voice echoing. I hardly notice the subject. I didn't vote for him. The engineer growls upward that this is a private control unit, here for study, not punition—and look what you've brought!
Even inside this block room, we can hear the rain.
"That's why we came to you," they say. "It has to stop."
I didn't design this place: doors open at the front of the left triangle, that sloping toward the doors; opposite with right, exterior triangle, doors at back. Permanent aperture right, variable (with doors) left. I just move the cars, or pull the plug.
Since two of the cars immediately become submerged (front left), the engineer opens the set aperture on the right, the authorities unable to move up the ramp, caught by discrete water levels against the relief door before the reservoir. Only the engineer can collect water in layers.
As the authorities watch, the subject slips through on a flat stream. The engineer voted for him.
"Keep your eye on him!"
Following instructions, one of my eyes opens, one too many. In my dream, I'm trying to accommodate transcendence from the vantage of beyond, its source, instead of suffering philosophy from mundane roots of unawareness. But this is neither slumming nor flatulence. This is a nap. I don't know what in wherever is going on, but does it? You don't really think that I would ask if anyone creates a dialogue with his dreaming, including mine.
- - -
H. C. Turk is a self-taught writer, sound artist, and visual artist living in Florida. His novels have been published by Villard and Tor. His short fiction, sound pieces, and images have appeared on numerous web-sites.
By H. C. Turk
No one will admit to voting for him. No one complains when he is tied to the station wagon's bumper and dragged away. Toward the end, they decide to drive past the gallows and continue to the engineer. Some of the best journeys are not in where you arrive, but what you bypass. That was part of his campaign slogan.
Arriving at the dam, they prepare him for questioning. I just open the locks after seeing their credentials. I'm no engineer.
Before the reservoir, above surrounding land, facing the waterway, a double opposing trio of pertinent shapes. Only the engineer can control a flood. Since the weather has been dry, his car collection is parked inside the flood room on a sloping floor against the wall. Everything is concrete block, and porous. You can't stop everything. Some things have to be let through.
As the authorities talk to him on a balcony looking down, the engineer instructs me to get the cars out, voice echoing. I hardly notice the subject. I didn't vote for him. The engineer growls upward that this is a private control unit, here for study, not punition—and look what you've brought!
Even inside this block room, we can hear the rain.
"That's why we came to you," they say. "It has to stop."
I didn't design this place: doors open at the front of the left triangle, that sloping toward the doors; opposite with right, exterior triangle, doors at back. Permanent aperture right, variable (with doors) left. I just move the cars, or pull the plug.
Since two of the cars immediately become submerged (front left), the engineer opens the set aperture on the right, the authorities unable to move up the ramp, caught by discrete water levels against the relief door before the reservoir. Only the engineer can collect water in layers.
As the authorities watch, the subject slips through on a flat stream. The engineer voted for him.
"Keep your eye on him!"
Following instructions, one of my eyes opens, one too many. In my dream, I'm trying to accommodate transcendence from the vantage of beyond, its source, instead of suffering philosophy from mundane roots of unawareness. But this is neither slumming nor flatulence. This is a nap. I don't know what in wherever is going on, but does it? You don't really think that I would ask if anyone creates a dialogue with his dreaming, including mine.
- - -
H. C. Turk is a self-taught writer, sound artist, and visual artist living in Florida. His novels have been published by Villard and Tor. His short fiction, sound pieces, and images have appeared on numerous web-sites.
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