child’s play in no-time

 

i slap off the one-colored

shades to load the wonted

sculpt of my current player

character sitting in the red

velvet bucket shotgun of a

polar bear fur ninety-two

buick regal sedan. behind

the wheel neut does the

same, stills his breath, and

wraps the car in the crisp

temporal paper of no-time.

absent our allies this infant

amnesty affords only a

whisper of favor. through

the windows another

wax bubble repose in a

calm lava lamp cosmos.

a further upended pyramid

based with our four-door

covered wagon parked on

a patch of city street under

a summertime maple and

tipped in burnt umber earth.

neut breaks the stained

glass quiet with a

measured transmission,

 

we must tear a door back

to fraud-time and stage

the tin foil ritual in the tar

pit heart of the beast.

 

i turn in my seat to face

him and answer aloud,

 

the SoDaC is close behind.

aim your intent

past the edge and drive.

 

i pull down the driver side

sun visor, drop the keys

in his lap. he starts the

engine as a vitreous rift

cracks the sky spitting

a ripe swarm of shrieking

demons swimming through

the coal molasses air of

the no-time field to tear at

our faceless clock covered

giftwrap in a graceful

bedlam of grape buck knife

fingers. they rip the doors

from their hinges and we

from our seats, toss us into

the street. each held to the

pavement by a handful of

demons beginning their

harvest, a cinnamon

suffering stirs beneath my

shoulder blades. i scream

myself unconscious as a

pair of sentient astral wings

with feathers of nuclear

fusion erupt from my back

and bloom a psychic field

that bursts the demons in

its wake like entrail

balloons. every demon

inverted, i begin to burn

from within without control.

neut tackles me through

the windshield into the car,

still running. he stomps

the gas pedal and points

us past the edge howling

my name.