calm during explosions [a not so tiny story]

By wirrow

there is a new plague in London.
people's limbs detach themselves from their torsos and float around the city weightlessly.
despite the mass hysteria of panic stricken crowds, a basic curiousity prevails. the limbs break off as effortlessly as they do painlessly.
the phenomenon begins to spawn a pattern of extra terrestrial theories and biblical prophecies.
before long, the limbs all gather in symmetric flight formation, and migrate to a remote spot in a field just outside the city.
the parade of arms and legs hovers in spiral motion, with an unapparent yet mysteriously profound sense of purpose.
attempts to interact are futile.
a state of emergency lasts for just 7 days.
they seem harmless..
--
years later, masses gather from all around the world to marvel at the legacy of the great plague.
scientists are zealously dedicated to understanding their resistance to gravity, and to the common laws of nature.
camera flashes cause occasional flinching, but only a slight shift in an otherwise unrelenting motion.
--
occasionally i get paranoid.
i stare at my arm for hours...waiting for the inevitable.
best not to think about it,
it's over now.
--
the crowds start to thicken over the years and i find myself among them regularly,
eyes affixed to the limbs' hypnotic orbit.
they've become completely divorced from their names;
from their significance.
it seems ridiculous to call them arms and legs.
they're just shapes to me now.
they're meat.
they're aliens.
--
i'm here most days now.
we all are.
we masquerade our addiction with a harmless fascination,
but they swarm over my thoughts like maggots on a carcass.
i find it hard to focus.
someone asks for my name.
i search my brain for a while.. i tell him i think it's something short but it really doesn't matter anymore.
everything is alien now,
everything is wordless.
and everyone here is insane.
we'd be calm during explosions
if there were any..
but it's eerily serene. everything seems out of place like some kind of Dali painting.
but no explosions.
no rain of fire,
no horses.
--
i strain to latch onto my final scraps of independent thought
before they fade into forgetfulness.
everything is hazey now
everything is...
...

..is this London?

is this where it all ends

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calm during explosions [a not so tiny story]

Created: Apr 17, 2010

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