Dec. 11th, 2012

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"Children of the Comet Empire Unite!!!"
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New piece in progress. Something bigger and better to trample the rejection letters with.

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Terminus Portal

Steel Workers

Metal Man Close Up

P1190155

Could be better
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I'm on line at the post office, the one on Piedmont, and directly ahead is a young couple. That they're embraced in a kiss that's starting to drift from first base to second doesn't bother me. That they are both on their phones while doing so, does for some reason. Since they're all of two feet in front of me I can hear the buzzing of muzak coming off the guy's phone and a woman speaking in some foreign language off the lady's. Behind me there's a guy who reeks like he bathed once this week, and with an old car air freshener shaped like a pine tree and no water at that. Behind him is a man who seems oblivious that the Siri app on his iPhone has contracted Tourette's Syndrome and is gently rattling off a stream of invectives that would make a sailor blush. Behind him is a woman who has bought in a tribe of feral children from Beyond the Thunderdome to turn the post office into an government funded jungle gym.

The man who smells of wino and pine tree begins muttering to himself. Something about how we're all letters mailed from God to Death that got lost in between and ended up in Hell. That was what the world was apparently, Hell which in turn was really Eternity's lost letter department. The children have ransacked the wall with shipping boxes and created makeshift robot costumes out of them. They are chasing each other around with tape dispenser guns. Mom shifts through some texts on her phone oblivious. Tourette's Syndrome Siri politely announces: "I shit on the balls of a monkey, who will stop me?"

There's only two folks working the counter at the UPS but a spot just cleared up as an old woman hobbles away weeping about how she just had all her old Christmas cards she sent off as a little girl returned to her and marked 'Return To Sender' from the North Pole. The seasons are cruel that way, but the spot is filled back up with a man in a coma who has been wheel-chaired over by an orderly in his hospital togs. The orderly explains that though the man is in a coma he had left instructions to have a series of questions about the postal industry explained to him on this day. The orderly pulls out a very long list. Still we all dutifully step up a spot, the couple included who do so as one unified creature in a sort of waddle sideways. Siri chimes in: "Cow belching saints sing the Eschaton and the black bells peal 'doom', 'doom', ''doom'."

"Doom!" one of the children scream through a rolled up first class envelope.

"Doom!" the woman on the phone of the girl making out says in clear English then slips back into a sing song melody that's indecipherable from there.

"Doom," Mister Pine Tree agrees, "That's how God signs all his letters. You know it's true. Don't you? Don't you? "

I nod awkwardly and crane my neck over the large box stuffed with Christmas presents clutched to my chest. Special delivery to the family down in sunny Cooper City. Originally I had left it on the floor but one of the kids tried climbing into it. But wait, another spot just opened, a man is dragged off screaming waving a chain-letter sent out by H P Lovecraft back in 1928 and has only now just reached his hands, fulfilling some dreary ancient prophecy or another. Excellent, the couple are up next. They break out of their kiss, swap phones and walk up to the counter. They smile at the woman working the desk, stare at her beatifically for a minute and then without a word walk out of the office.

My turn finally and I step up to fill in the spot just as the woman behind the counter breaks down into tears. She starts sobbing to me how she's never known the happiness that couple ahead of me shared and how she never will. I don't know quite what to say to this so I say nothing, standing there instead with my big box of Christmas presents ready to be launched to a warm Christmas tree a state away. She apologizes and runs off in a wail of soul grinding agony. Siri offers a helpful - "As one the Fallen gather over our fattened presumptions and tin faith."

The man working the counter adjacent to where she was smiles and shrugs and assures me someone will be with me shortly. The man in the coma mumbles a single word from his wheel chair - "Doom!" The orderly and the remaining worker behind the counter smile and clap their hands victoriously. It's a Christmas Miracle. One I'm content to wait out as the robot children battle at my feet and Siri calls me a 'cunt' from across the office.

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