Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are fragile, rampant and tremor. This is short and tense, as I got my stuff Monday and I’m still unpacking.

Bent awkwardly in the mid-section, he rests his ass on a chipped metal gate, but the puke won’t come.
The tremors started hours ago, and like a pregnant woman’s contractions, they’re coming at shorter and shorter intervals.
An east wind blows warm across his skin. It carries with it the scent of fried foods, wet paper, a slight whiff of sewer gas. The breeze races over his skin, upsetting an already fragile condition.
Viscous drool, clear and bubbly, escapes bluish-purple lips.
Passers-by give him an even wider berth than normal; a baby in a stroller looks back, catches his eyes, and begins to wail.
He spits once, and a tooth hits the concrete. He spits again. Each mouthful of saliva carries with it more teeth.
Even he’s surprised at the lack of blood.
There’s something rising from the pit of his belly. His throat tastes of bile, bitterness. He stands, wobbly, puts a hand on the gate, bends to vomit.
Droplets of blood, dark crimson, fall from his outstretched mouth and onto the broken concrete like raindrops. His mouth feels slick; he flicks his tongue across toothless gums and whimpers.
He’s fighting for breath.
His fingers constrict, turn into claws and rip at his throat. It’s shutting off his airway. His forehead turns scarlet, then purple, the veins in his temples pulsate blue. The whites of his eyes are filling with blood, as capillaries burst from the pressure.
Falling to his knees, he looks through nearly dead eyes and a dizzying haze at the crowd that’s been drawn to him, a circle of gawkers. He wants to tell them to run very fast, run far, far away.
There’s one last push.
His lifeless flesh hits the pavement. A woman screams.
But it’s free, breathing on its own, looking for new hosts.
The crowd scatters in panic. There are sirens in the distance, urgent, converging.
Across the static of radios, there’s worry in the dispatchers’ voices. The calls are now rampant across the city. Sickness, vomiting. Something else.
Something. What? Alive?
There’s too many calls.
Just way too many.

OneWord, Shore

It's good to have personal stuff. As I write this, I'm sitting at my desk, in my chair, with music playing and the dog curled up at my feet. Still have some unpacking to do, so I've gone over to OneWord to get their prompt.
The word is "shore." As always, you get 60 seconds to write.

Barefoot on the sand, she follows the spine of the shore by feeling where the tide tickles toes, brisk and refreshing. It’s a moonless night, and the darkness feeds her mood. There’s a sadness to her gait, dried tears upon her face. There’s a slight rise in the sand and here the shoreline opens up. Water laps over her feet. She turns toward the water and begins walking, fresh tears streak down her cheeks.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are effect, immense and shimmer.
Sorry The Tension has been a little bleak these days for posts. No secure Interwebs connection. That all gets corrected this week.

In Transit
When it happens, I’m in the North Woods of Central Park, high on a grassy point with trees and rocks on either end, my back pressed into a cool carpet of green.
Opening my eyes, I’m staring up at a giant black willow that has taken on an aura of lightness, a shifting of colors throughout the spectrum. I close my eyes, open them, and proceed to click through several new sight effects: infrared, spectral, classic color.
Zooming in, I watch each slender leaf get picked up by the breeze, begin to vibrate and within each branch join in a symmetrical symphony that brings to mind theory.
Intelligent Design? No, I toss that aside. Chaos? Too random.
And in the wavering of the leaves, it comes to me – String Theory, the musical notes of the universe all tuned and played under various tensions. Breathing deeply, I catch the wet earthiness of the meer to the east, the fragrant herbaceousness of the grass, the slight saltiness of the homo sapiens who surround me in the knoll, having kicked off their shoes and shed or arranged shirts delicately to soak up warm sun rays. While I feel the warmth, I also sense on my lucent shell gradient temperatures, barometric pressures and this alerts me to a change of seasons, that while still quite temperate out, there is a detectible bite of fall carried on the wind.
I am filled with undeniable lightness and immense joy.
Through new eyes I canvas my new casing, a shimmering that’s like a whisper.
And focus on the immense erection I’m sporting. Changing vision, I see waves of heat, colors that announce pleasure, arc-like waves of blue-bolt energy. Truly satisfied, I rise to a seated lotus position, raise my appendages and stretch.
From the corners of my peripheral vision – now nearly a complete 360 degrees – I focus on the two forms walking forward to my left. Nearly identical forms to my own, wisps of energy, but more rounded.
Ah, female.
They walk by, appendages wrapped around each-other’s hips, sauntering gently in lock-step precision. As they pass, they giggle and wave, motion for me to join them. I rise, partner with them in the middle, resting my appendages on the swell of hips and slowly caress the round suppleness of what was once human flesh.
More giggles as we compare and contrast the fiery displays of our sexual organs, all electric and pulsating. Joining limbs, we collapse into a pile of static brilliance on the lawn.
I am stirred from resolute ecstasy by the yapping of a French bulldog, who senses our presence. He’s wearing a little black leather biker vest, the owner’s equally black leather leash secured by a silver ring. The owner tugs furiously on the dog, admonishing it for seemingly yapping at the breeze.
Past the dog, on the trail headed toward the meer, I scan my human self, walking our dog. She looks at the bulldog, then at our pulsating mass. My human form does the same.
I wave from the grass, triumphant and ecstatic.
He waves back from the asphalt, a furrow of slight recognition wavers across his face.
The dog strains at her leash as a squirrel bounds from a tree, scampers across the trail and disappears into the underbrush.
I watch myself turn, retreating around a bend in the trail, forward into his inescapable future.

OneWord, Sunlight

Still no Interwebs service at home. Everything is done by coffee shop or stolen signal.
Thought I'd do a OneWord. One word, and 60 seconds to writer. That word? Sunlight.

Sunlight pervades this place. The kind of lemony-yellow light that makes you squint, sneeze, just by looking at it. It envelopes you, like a blanket, warm on exposed flesh that turns to heat when out too long. Sunlight like the skin of a golden delicious apple, fragrant, vibrant. The final strong rays of fall, before another winter sets in, turning skin to alabaster, gooseflesh.

Scenes From The City

Funny what gets awakened when you move to a place where there’s something to see around every corner.

I’ve been in New York some 72 hours, and besides stopping at odd moments to profess, “I live in New York,” I’ve found that having my camera handy is a terrific way to document not only the journey I’m on, but the city where I choose to be inspired.

And what inspiration.

Funny, I’ve not taken a lot of shots in my neighborhood. I sit on the dividing line between Harlem and East Harlem in Manhattan. But I had a guest in town, H, who graciously drove my truck back to SooFoo (and will babysit it) in exchange for a weekend in the city.

Those shots will be coming in the next days and weeks.

But for now, sit back, relax, and view other parts of the city through the lens of my Cannon G11 camera:

Random subway images

Rockerfeller Center

Union Square

World Trade Center

Times Square