The street is so dark, it looks more like an alley. Light from late night businesses downtown barely breach the entrance, with only the occasional flicker or so from what remaining storefronts attempt to stake their presence off the beaten path. A moment later, a tall store window roars to life with the nearly imperceptible fuzz of a wall of television screens, showing nothing but white static. In front of it, stands something shaped like a man.
Upright
Jeans cinched up high to expose his ankles and bare feet, but shirt entirely missing – barring him from most commercial establishments. However, he probably wouldn’t be admitted on the simple basis that his face appears to phase in and out, like a poorly-tuned hologram. Incomplete robot, or something infinitely more bizarre, he looks a bit like an unfinished portrait, meticulously sketched out and planned, but stopped short. In his left hand, he grips a simple wood-handled hammer. He’s no one, not even a person to so many, but in a sense this makes him free. What would happen if the hammer met glass? He taps it lightly on the surface – the sound pierces the quiet street.
Reversed
A police siren turns the corner of the adjoining street and he pulls back as the car passes, standing in the stark white light of the wall of televisions. Get with the program. He didn’t consent to the program. That’s not how things work. Why not? It’s a victimless vandalism. They already shrink back when they see his face, why shouldn’t he push the limits on his own? He might be caught. Perhaps disassembled. But until then, there was the rush of seeing what might happen. With a wide, horizontal swing, the window drops at the first puncture. Glass rains down on his bare feet, and then those bare feet carry him into the darkness further into the city.
All illustrations and text copyrighted from The Liminal Deck.
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