Sit-Ups & Supersex: Metafictional Ventilations of Times Aligned in Passions House

By Celine Flux

Alas . . . hospitalization finds Omni befriended by Nurse Seattle and young
radiographer Niv. After he discharges himself, wounds weeping Seattle
crosses professional / marriage lines to visit. One night of folklove with Boho
Bee before taken from Harbourton, to Metroaux, then an inevitable return
in crutches where Niv introduces big bro Nick, who fudges paperwork at
the majestic-yet-eerie place of employment dominating the Zone1 skyline. A
Mumbai fling endures with workmate Neongreat times in the Triangular
Kilometres (in the city) are had when she, Omni, Niv and Quetzal have
hilarious happenings heading to their shared SE1 flat. But Neon dies
tragically and Vienna, calamitous and poetic, is framed after a night with
wicked but hard-bodied Mr Rella. Before then, or 911, or even Vees
capture and trial, Nick sips in The Herbal Cafeterium W1: kids with not so
keen Vee? Inside trading with closest law-bending colleague Lanky Peter?
While protecting young protge Omni . . . Meanwhile in Hoeswater with
Evelyn: After leaving Adamsports lout with corresponding opinions
Seattle bumps into Laureate and sistren Abigail, Volga and co. Reunited she
describes the temples beautifully ugly philosulum to Omni, yet he just wants
to know whats up with the Ugly Girls title? Unbeknown Mother Laureate
. . . knew Omniversal would come. Long-estranged by now, Nick, Peter
and Omni eye-up the same jacket. The weekend swelters but Nick walks
over to WC2 to claim it first. Bags full tube-bound he witnesses what looks
like a lovers tiff! Janet, mature but hot, throws her wedding band at Michael
and lover in front of the Bluecoats. Ordered off, without purse or keys he just
has to inquire . . .Are you OK . . . ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jun 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456892555

Celine Flux

Celine flux studied at the Omnivertas of Hip Hop Intelligentsia writing multiple-volumes worth of what elitists’ call thinking woman’s rap. Acquiring later endorsement from Parallel Shadowless, this debut indicates her acquittal of the highbrow branch of what has appointed itself, the second widest of political platforms.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Celine Flux.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4568-9254-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-9255-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

301869

Contents

 . . . And Some Men Lab Trial From Grammatika Challinga

Oh My God! I Bought Her Album… Then Her Religion!!

Yea, I Said It; No Movie Can Impress Moi Anymore!

One Rom-Com Too Many

If Old Ye English Evolves… Why Can’t Literature Yo?

The More Petentious, The More Apprehensive The Sentence

Digest This You Noble Dolphin

The Day I Found Out Nicole Kidman Had The Hell On Earth Lp

The Remains Of Pain, Needles,Or Poetry

Obviously The One Who Disproves That, Blows Immortal

Traumatized By The Revelation She Switched To Ortow Pylit

Transcendental Pastimes Overlap Ethistential Dilemas

Young Skinny And Wrong

A Variable Perspective Of Cloud Cuckooland

So What’s Pre-Natal Pleasure? (Whatever It Is, Use It Properly-Post)

Dont Touch Me Pre-Herodotus, Or I’ll Bleed

I Can Do It All By Myself,Coz I’m Superman (Godless?)

Streets Keep Callin’ (But Its Outlook Is Not Important!)

No One Keeps It Real, So, You’re Forced Into The Fakeness Tet

Veggie Burgers Cooking Over Fossilized Fuel

Compliments Of That Complimentary Me

Compressed Text, Dense, Like Imported Ganges

Caution: If U Thought Of It, So Did The Devil! (Counter Please)

Exellence…? Possible, Not Price Of Knowledge, Perfection Included

Real Zaggingz Omnify Theories

Soz Mate, No Effeminacy, No Acceptance. Company Policy, Sorry

So Reds And Brunets Really Come Off As More Interesting…?

They Can Reach Our Bases In Cyprus (Hey Remember That Sh-T?)

Busy Blackboard Mind-Mapping, So Only Portions Of Love

What You Call Networking, I Call Giving Brain

Exploring Hologramic Aspects Of Consciously Solving Problems… (Huh?)

Saturnalia Sez It Won’t Work Without Debauchery (Or Air Cover)

Chin Up, Don’t Drown, Reach For You… Promise

Huh, Now Do It Sober! (Oh! & That’s Why They Want A Free Press!)

Yea But… Duke Of Lancastria Digs That About Her, So All Hail

Nearest William Wallace Knows To Gully/Gazaheart Iz 8-Mile

Burn Who’s Books? (Cheeky Cheekea!)

7-Density Lightbeing Of Wuqitao Transmanifest Personally

But Ya Toast Gotta Ring If You Wanna Live Like A Young King

Corperate Tennis Shoes And Shiny Tracksuits

Miss! Who Else Has Semetic Features?

Slangmananov Stripes & The Artical Musclehead/Mini-Muscle-Ed Soundclash

Crossfade’s Mosquito Net Where Ryu & Ken Deafen 2 Celtic Tigresses

Polished Assumstions Over Gorrilla Angles Of Cyclical Bogey

Oi! I’ve Worked It Out… Infrastructure!!!

Rudeboy, The Truth Wont Fit Your Head

Why Natural Laws Punish: (Demonic Activities? . . . Armageddeon…? Bring It!)

Granduers Of Delusion, Dishonesty, And Raw Food Riots (I Mean Diets)

Multiply Myself Ten Times Standing Next To Zero

Uncultured Sophism Anyone…? (Socratic Method Hurts Those Nearest)

Alone Again In Full Bloom (Finally)

The Supreme Service Sector (Where Every Event Is Ironic)

Oh, I Mean Strings Define Chaos Where Even Inconceivable Concepts Exist

Dramatize, Mediasize, Then Weaponize Those Bionic Yogahips

Sticks And Stones, Such A Long Way To Swim

El Binding Thread Hypothos; Lonely? . . . Or Just Subtle?

William Hobbit On Abolishion (Hood Indo-Intelligentsia, Take F##Kin’ Notes)

Tetsuya: Lose The I Within Everyone’s Odyssey

Distant Alignment Of Telescopic Lunacy

Rule2# Never Fall In Love With Folksinging Lablemates

Unrecognized Nations Marketed So Well…! Thinkin’ A Defecting (Not)

Just Cool, In The Business Mr Err… It Was Too Easy

Listen, That ***** Was Dissin’ Listen, Rewind It!

Die Drunk

Elixir Of Invisible Virtue

Live From The Gated Community (Wide Of The Mark Pt1)

Stop; The Observer Changes Properties Of The Observed!

Yea, I Get It, But I Don’t Rate It! (Wide Of The Mark Pt2)

Religious Upgrade For The Sexy Savage

This Aint For The Converted

Woolf Delivering Barberous Races To The Blessings Of Civilisation

Hanging My Washing Out There Like Jerry Maguire

Maya (Our Teacher) Spites One’s Best Intentions!

Apply Snowflakes To Macrominicosms

The Sucka-Free Sucka And The Quiet Desperado Lass

Quixotic Extremities Of Existence

Impinging Joints, Trapped Nerves, More Pride, More Prejudging

Might As Well Face It You’re Pretending To Luuuve (Eggshells Pt. 1)

A Blonde Momento In Risk-Free Romances

Genetik Trauma For The Nuclei

The Turtle-Sparrow Axiom

Elaborate Scrollz For The Sincere Catholic

Outnumbered In Polls, Naked In Ballots, Despite Global Majority

But See… This Was A Different Game

Unmodified Servants In The Habitat O-The Senses

This Is My Weedface (Devotional Servitude: Angstless?)

Sucking Historical Horses**T Off Background Radiation

U Down Play It, I Go There

Move, Or Ill Leave No Choice But To Make You

Bitch I’m Explaining The Way To My Heart!

Satta Wid Ya Ball And Chain (Tales Of The Hockley Handcuff)

Labelled-Ego, And Dolodelf, Well… It’s The Plane Of Lovers?

From Up Here, I Can Pinpoint D Exact Location Of Space!

Why Vote With Bills Of A Child-Grabbing Ring? (I Dont Get It)

All Dressed Up 4 A Packet Of Noodles So Engage The Core

Let’s Not Forget The Philistines Right To Water (Tea In This Case)

Satin Sex Retrievals Of Erogenous Velvet Twirl

Do Jamaican Flags Installed Make Your Car Theft-Proof?

Don’t Know Better? Then Suffer You Don’t… The Mission Of Moths

The Kernal-Konsept Flowed, But The Rest Was Agony

The Actual Life Of A Modern Miscivilization Critic

Iz Dat Y U Shut Me Out, Coz U Dont Belive?

Rains Gonna Come Lady… You, Cant, Duck It

Shall We Just Accept He’s British (Plc) And Exploit The Fact?

Babies Wid Flies Around Dey Cheeks It’s Hard To Go To Sleep

Then You’ve Got The Unreachables (O.A.A.M.)

Wait A Sec; Good Guys Don’t Kiss Like That? Oh Yes They F***Ing Do!

The Theoretical Reality Of Atheism

Why They Banned Kite Flying

Homeowner, Homeowner, Scream It From The Rooftops, Homeowner!

I Go Through All This, B4 U Wake Up (Ask Bjork Then)

I’m Mr Universe… Some, Body, Murck Me

Murk, Me, Pillzzzz… No, Body, Cares, Girl, Friend

Requiem Love Eternum; Too Careful… Smash, Everything

For Morpheus Trilogies And Hippies Who Didn’t Turn Back!

The Distinctions Of Evolving Species

Esteemed Poets…? Be Specific!

Scrapyards In Ascot (Plus Admin Fee; Corperate Charity Only)

Cell Floorwork To Ambient Birdsong Repressing Nomadic Tendencies

Space-Debris Passing In The Night

Hip-Hop Hippies Clash Gangless Gangmembers 4 Rap’s Subculture

And Seattle’s Vertabre Sez ‘You Gonna Twist Me Or What?’

Then You Sit And Rot… Neva Even Got A Fair Shot

Yes! . . . Can Sense Why, But, Cant Verbalize The Sensations

This Millenium Either Come With Us Or Go With Them, It’s That Simple

We’ve Just Received Some Breaking News! And Scientist’s Say…

Hey, I Fed That Philosophy Girl, That Culture Ignited This One!

O Cognative Saturation, She Is The One

One Rap Taboo Left… Though Rappers Have The Biggest Egos (Bang Bang)!

Familiar Fruit, Democraticly Elected, 4+ Qur’ans Ago

Def Frets Change Everything (I Guess Right?)

With No Mahatma’s To Query… Conduct The Yogic Experiment Yourself!

Masta-Authors Influencing Patterns, Did I Trace?

About Sit-Ups And Supersex Then: Artistic Or Perverted Expression?

Or Is It, Less Sex, More Affection…?

A Clinical Study Of Subpassion

Oblongata Nerveforce Transmittion, Cheek 2 Cheek… At A Funeral

(Reah) Janjaweed Burners Are British (Rah)!

Retreat, Surrender, And Silence

Athletic, Or… Bumper…? Buff… Or Fit…?

Lavener Toes, Cinnammon Seedbags, B4 She Thought The Earth Was Flat

Doin This 2 Long 2 Not Come Strong (Especially On Mixtapes)

We All Thaught We Made It, But Somewhere, Sh-T Backfired

Now, For My Next Trick… Reveal The Unblemished (Exactly Girl!)

Y They’ll Never Revolt (Or Fully Join Europe)

The Art Is, Hold, Then Describe… That Is The Art Part Right…?

Darwin On Worms (Now Stop Blaming Him Will Ya!)

I’m In Big Trouble Man, And I’m Coming To Your House

Seattle, Can’t Wait Until Im Ugly Too

Is Bugs Bunny From Bx Or Bk?

It Takes A Woman Like You, To Get Though, To Deep Down In Moi

Inconcistency Of The Text Makes It Complexed

Simon Sez Fall Back, Eat, Dare Hopelessnes (But Then, When Iz Enough…?)

Cerebro-Spinal Council Between Seattle’s Conciousness & Omni’s Ego

Aristotle On Democracy (Yet The Charge Of Paedophilia Remains)

Bet Ya Monthly Tube Ticket And Ya Bottom Dolla

Pen Predator, Excetera (Yea Right)

You Call That Submission Challinga? (It’s There But You Go Alone)

Mastered That Art In 95’ Now I Am So Bored :(

This Gratification, Horny Woman, Is Avalible To The Pig And The Knob!!

This Is What It Sounds Like When You’re Caught In A Whirlwind

The Origins Of This High Culture Are A Complete Mystery

If Child’s Imunized For Mmr Then Gets Mumps What Was The Injection?

How Many Suffragetts Wore Mosleys Blackshirts?

Necro, Dmx & 50Cent Were Originally Onyx Members… Consider That!

Well Tonight Thank God Its Theeeem, Insteeeead Of Yooooou!

Writers Read Between The Lines… Rappers, Read Between The Ryhmes!

And You Shall Teach Them Dilligently To Your Children!

Further Trials, Funds, Errors, Research, And Development

Matadors Unlawful Assembly Of Mutual Arisings

Punctual Cleanfreaks And Bond Girls With Muddy Manoeuvers

More Like A Fibre Ripping Addiction (Yogamat, Feel The Burn)

Final O.A.A.M Jigsaw: Just Let Them Float…

I’d like to thank: Internal research docs of Sukadeva Gosvami and Lord Sri Krsna which diluted its way into all post-Kemetic/Tantric/Vedic systems of living, Tibetsumoto and the rest of my family, the incalculable food (most perfectly edible) decomposing under gumlines plus in the landfill amongst all those obsolete consoles, my spirillectual opposition, musical artforms I’ve outgrown (bar intellectual artists mentioned), middle-class-guilt that made it’s way to the lower orders, Parallel Shadowless, maya, fledgling culture vultures, and all those wasted I love you’s.

Yet the moral of this dream (Tet) is… Do not observe lifestyle lessons

of cultural newcomers… obviously xXx.

 . . . AND SOME MEN LAB TRIAL FROM GRAMMATIKA CHALLINGA

Once, enclosed within an art appreciation cycle (but trying to get out), a ten year one, there dwelt six living entities bound by laws of material nature moving as individuals inside a complete whole.

Constantly engaged in profit-minded service this handful of living beings—it should be mentioned—had read the right books, but, seen from the window of this tale, in totally the wrong order. One of these transient, presently earthbound beings was Omni and his girlfriend/ shrink was Neon Light.

Neon, working late tying up some loose ends, planned to surprise Omni and Nivja [Niv’ya] with his favourite, a triple cheese-on-triple-cheese (with extra grilled cheese and kidney beans!) on a dingy-sized pizza big enough for three of them to share. If she stayed over, then from Blackfriars it’d be easy for her to walk into Tri Kilo before customized markets opened.

Neon—(too bad… nice lass… real shame)—was at a great point in her life now after being led astray, finding her way back… slowly. She loved her job, loved hanging out with boyfriend and old chum at their shared flat, and, of course, doing what expendable income brackets can permit her to do in and around the pricey zone—which of the most frequent: replace bathroom cosmetics raided by Omni, wine for borderline alkie Toltec, and upgrades via some generic decree to opt into an electronic arms race. But gradually now, she was beginning to feel like the point of life where one waited for something to happen, was passing, and the best part which included her three friends, was yet to come. Only one more emotion-gate needed bolting; she hadn’t spoken to her annoying parents in ages; stalemate.

Whenever her father called to say he’d touched down holding discussions nearby, especially at his consulting house, the Analyses Of Finite Commodities Affiliates—a large consultancy house for selected fiscal members in Immortal Approachville—she always made sure she was out of the area, or previously engaged, getting her best friend Nivja to cover (to Niv’s half-amazement at the length of this family feud and half-presumption that it would only continue unless she had a proper one-on-one with her mother). Yes, the time had come for a truce in the parent-daughter war which she first initiated, and now, it seemed all involved were softening with age so sit down talks were fast becoming inevitable.

Their final camel’s back incident, some years ago, came about when she ducked out of Repliversity, because of pre-romanticized ideas of it being some ridged academics sanctum of literature, where one could successfully transmigrate from apprentice to master. When she got to Repli, the one in west Zone1 and supposedly rated fourth in the country, it became apparent that this was not to be the case. Reawakening, Neon returned back from family ponderings of yesteryear, refocused her eyes to turn off her CPU, and prepared to leave work.

Freakishly, at the same time Vienna was hailing a black cab, with Niv’s brother and workmate to Neon, Nick, following, watching-then-tracking behind from a safe distance. The cab’s on duty light came on as it pulled over so Nick ran back to his own car with a head full of determined spears, ready to pounce with questions just as soon as she reached her destination; a destination that Nick was unaware of; his levels of suspicion were beginning to reach a plateau. In separate vehicles and a few cars apart they entered Tri Kilo. She stopped outside the Shadowless Towers east-facing car park entrance. It was now his levels of suspicion reached its peak! Eyes up, just over sleet on the roof she paid the driver, and then at full height, cab chugging away, she arched forward, carefully from shoulder to shoulder looking around, bulky lapels high, covering her cheeks.

Since their blazing row in Blood Diamond the sky had completely darkened for the night, and the spotless streets, usually busy with brokers and traders rushing back and forth across squares were completely empty.

She left the kerb and went over to one of the large air-carrier-sized metal shutters sealing Shadowless off from the outside world. Holding her bag to the light, mumbling numbers with a pulsating key she began to tamper with the flashing digilock.

Frowning, Nick watched what he could from his parked car, battling with Mr P Actience, undecided on what step to take next. He grabbed his moby balancing the two merits of: phoning her (to scream that he was fifty meters behind and practically psychotic), against what this Mr P Atience was whispering in his mind: advising that he first, wait and see why in Krsna’s paramantra was she entering his place of work when 731 Filter Systems was down the block, and, why she was using a key thought up until a heartbeat ago, impossible to be in her possession. But see now, this was a different game linked to their ongoing rows across town, and he wanted confirmation of exactly what she was playing at there as the fibre optic interface—the only light anywhere near the shutters—illuminated her steamy breath. Zenfro for a moment longer he just observed, thinking, with Vienna, trying to look as nonchalant as possible in her unwieldy dark coat and handbag, stepping under, by now, rising shutters, into the darkness of the car park.

OH MY GOD! I BOUGHT HER ALBUM… THEN HER RELIGION!!

Meanwhile half-way up, daydream fully over now, ready to go, Neon grabbed her stuff and walked through the many racks of workstations, saying goodbye to the international office cleaners and the two Upper floors reduced night security, both long bellied, stood complimenting monotony at their respective posts on the way out. As Neon high up, was making her way to call a lift, busy familiarizing herself with the hugely dimmed environment downstairs, street lights barely lighting up the wall and cars far ahead to the left, Vienna, had found signs, directing her to the same lift shaft, taking a few steps, then squinting around to look for the next sign.

Just moments later noodle-kneed and apprehensive, Nick took a deep breath at the steering wheel to calm down before stepping into the street. Neon leaving the workfloor buttoned her coat, breached the swinging double gates leading out of the work floor while Vienna, began, one after another, to carefully follow to the final wall markings pointing toward the lifts.

By this time Nick taking care not to get nabbed, had hoisted himself up out of his car and was walking over to one of the ground floor shutters. When he arrived he turned, guardedly looking around him, then, side-stepped over to the digilock with a tense, stiff stance.

Neon cuddled her bag, swinging it round in front so she could unzip it, thinking of rekindled friendship and food. Vienna on the other hand slowly approached the lift, as Nick, way over at the other end of the parking complex was selecting from his bunch, the right key.

The lift Vienna had called arrived, doors opening, splitting in two. Neon’s tummy was growling with hunger as she walked further along the narrow walkway, entering a second door leading to the auxiliary car park lifts. Nick had by now inserted the right digikey. He looked up as the car park gate began to grind itself open. When Vienna’s shiny lift doors separated she stepped in. Excited, she pressed grade 4, suspending all movement while taken up. Nick behind, had quietly stepped under the gate and into the car park, occupied by trepidation. Neon, hungry, now tired and drowsy also, arrived at the lifts just like any other work night pressing the button, in so doing summoning the lift. Vienna approached Janitor Level 4. She got out and began to slowly walk towards a row of parked cars between cement pillars. Glad weekly corp-servitude was over at last, relishing the Friday night ahead Neon stepped into her lift thinking more, of Niv, Omni, and Toltec, over in SE1.

Nick tried to sense Vienna’s whereabouts. He walked to the first in a series of pillars on the ground floor, then scanned all around the dark scene for a distinct sound trail: Ironically by this time he and Vienna were having similar thoughts, but Neon couldn’t get to her car fast enough! She elongated a huff, lifting up her fringe, tapping her fingers in mild frustration. Vienna made her exit when both lift doors fully opened, the silence broken by heels striking the surface, reverberating like bottle-encased thunderbolts. She walked past the first pillar, then the second, then the third.

Still on the ground floor, looking around, Nick noticed the line of elevator display screens glowing in the mid-distance. He got nearer, stopping at the resource room which was strangely active, its door slightly open—Now, while trying to work out what level of peculiarity this had, his attention was drawn back; two lights, he sensed them, flashing, above two of the doors. He marched over and pressed both lift door buttons, urged on by his own currents of disbelief!

Neon rummaged around in her bag, looking hard for her car keys, as Vienna, led by her eyes, walked passed a few more pillars. She noticed the car she was meant to read off her Shadowless number to; its light was on—this wasn’t according to her briefing by Mr Rella the previous night… Still, she squinted her eyes to see if there was anybody else sitting inside. Neon, found her car keys at the point Vienna saw the shape of the Shadowless agent in the driver’s side, but no shape on the passenger side came into view. Nick edged himself out from the lift-threshold at level 1, leaning his head out, pricking up his ears, and briefly looking both ways before heading to level two.

Vienna now tried to compose herself, slowing as she approached the car, parked, not too well. Positively jarred, Nick tapped his feet on the way up to tier deuce, but as the lift reached, he sensed activity above him, possibly on level trey, or square? The agent’s vehicle between two other cars was a tight squeeze—Inhaling, she managed to pull the door open a couple of feet. Neon took out her phone, scrolling through rapid-dials to order pizza. Nick stood by the elevator interface waiting impatiently.

He pressed it again and again, sending the lift upwards, dimension of time, and its tempo, annoying. He stuck his head out of the lift door at level four. It was dark but he knew the layout for this particular floor. He heard some walking… He followed it.

Vienna entered the car sliding her body down into the small gap to sit, while Neon, just yards from her car now, was still on the phone, attention scattered. Vienna closed the car door, then looked across, telling the agent her name and the time she was expected to be present but sensed something was wrong, him, unduly agitated, wired, nostrils red. Vienna with her lifestyle, knew the signs of a man who’d been skiing in the snow. While she was analysing this, Nick, tugged that way by his sense of suspicion, followed.

Neon was finishing up now, checking the time on the phone before putting it back in her bag. Nick picked up pace. Vienna followed protocol; she took out the Shadowless folder from her bag and opened it preparing to read. So seconds later, the driver was then told she was to receive further instructions from him. As she read, looking closely for the passcode on a page further back the driver secretly locked the doors, putting the gear stick in reverse almost oblivious to what she was saying. When she realized, she turned to open the door. This happened as Neon walked into the driving line of the agent’s car.

It had only travelled a couple of meters back before they heard a deep, violent, thud under the boot. Nick heard it too. He feared it was Vienna. The driver unlocked his car. They both got out but the driver was faster. She saw him look down, under the car, pivot, then run away.

Her heart pounded, spiking in and out against her chestplate. She walked the half step to the rear wheel of the car and bent forward: Neon, unidentified for a time, was lying there, unconscious.

Obviously panicked and clumsy, the driver kept running off into the dark, dramatically, from the car, round towards Nick, at top speed—It was so dark they half collided!

Vienna was frozen stiff, stunned in her stare while Nick, after being bungst by the man, turned his attention, intrigued by some pre-atomic sense, over to a red glow of rear car lights ahead. He ran towards them fearing for Vienna’s safety. But Vienna still never noticed who it was laying there on the floor, her mind straight away on Mr Rella, and a possible set-up.

Neon was already dead when Vienna saw Nick approaching the two of them. He decreased his gallop, eyes fixed firmly on Vienna’s now definable outline. Raising his chin for more air Nick held his gaze from down his nose even harder as he finally approached, bent down onto one knee, then cut his stare off, now placing his eyes onto who he was about to realize… was both his little sister’s best friend, and his workmate!, down on the floor, limbs twisted, torso, badly crumpled. It only dawned on Vienna when Nick yelled Neon’s name, even then, the realization rose up slow-like.

He took off his coat, gently placing it under her head then checking for a pulse—but there was nothing there. Vienna was still, astonishingly, at arm’s length. Nick yelled at Vienna, ‘Call an ambulance Vee!’ noticing her unusual distance, also her reluctance to participate in the resuscitation attempt. Even more bizarre was the two car doors swung open behind her. His mind flashed back to the man who came running and bungst into him as he approached the set.

Suddenly, the car park lights began to power-up on one by one; they should have been on since dusk; an irregularity Nick remembered but failed again to notice up until that moment. Vienna still hadn’t called the ambulance. So Nick repeated himself; he wanted to know why she was standing so far back?—From Vienna’s point of view, for now, she refused to get involved, unsure if she was being framed or not, so off base-instinct, she lied. ‘I… I haven’t got my phone’. He dipped behind into his back pocket for his own moby and began to dial while Vienna was thinking about the little she knew of forensics.

He closed his phone and looked down at young Neon, noticing Vienna in his periphery inching back further. Wrongly, his next unfortunate thought was of postponing any interrogation until later. Vienna took a few steps back, checking inside the car. She did this knowing deep down there were two galactic prices to be paid for meeting up with Mr Rella, sleeping with him, and taking up his challenge—these were the unwanted fruits born of her passion. Nick wiped away tears and lifted Neon’s small face in his large hands half thinking about his sister, Nivja.

Hearing footsteps outside tap rapidly along the floor, he ran over to the wall and looked down. Swift, pinpoint amid the moon above, he saw a man, stripping off from a boiler suit to reveal a three-piece, running as fast as he could, crossing the amber-lit street to the other side and off into the night. But when Nick turned back around puzzled, focus dissolved, Vienna had gone.

YEA, I SAID IT; NO MOVIE

CAN IMPRESS MOI ANYMORE!

Now, years previous—while casually pondering who facilitated amalgam reality—adjacent to that same part of town, Omni (think black Maverick droppin’ ill lectures) was making his way from the Political Triangular Kilometres out to the sticks but had to pick up a package in Kennington along the way. It was a damp, autumnal Sunday afternoon. The roads were unusually quiet leaving Omni to, take in the scenery, ponder the police car, nature’s observable passing, and thus, ease up off the throttle now.

Ever since childhood up in the post-industrial city of Metroaux he would always associate Sundays with boredom; all those church members at the lunch table while other boys in the local hood scaled disused factories along the canal, looking for lead and copper, or raiding scrap yards till sunset, or, until frostbite set in.

Slipping from that deep zone on his motorbike, still daydreaming on higher light codes of cosmological elegance and downshifting to the red light, the lane on his right, had just turned green. The car in front of a gold Mercedes proceeded to take the right turn back in the direction of SE1—as for the middle and left lanes? Well, they were heading west to Brixton, then on to Clapham, Balham, Tooting and out to Zonelimits.

The mediocre Mercedes with dark tints detailed an outline of a petite, probably female driver jazzing a large, outdated perm. It indicated to the left as the other two lane lights went green. This so-called luxurious, slightly smog-dusted car began to hop into the middle track—(nothing too bizarre, lane-hopping happens all the time, right?)

But Omni didn’t have enough space and time to make a successful evasive manoeuvre from the middle lane to swing his bike left around the Merc. Unfortunately for Omni, levels of conceit reserved for highbrow mic-mutilators only, he lost control. Truth told, from this, transitory perspective of the pen, both motorists were at fault. Oui, they both made that hara-deflecting key miscalculation, causing the front left wing of the car to clip the tail-end of the bike as it was completing its left tilt, acceleration, then intended straighten-up trick. The momentum took Omni and his bike skidding along the raspy pebble-encrusted floor diagonally towards the curb, which Omni then, unable to reflex or avoid, mounted.

He continued flying, skimming-then-flying again like a shot, towards the looming lamppost. Grasping its distance and approximating final outcome, then in an instant forming the foetal position, timing almost perfectly in advance those projected, auxiliary, but increasingly imminent events, plus while at the same time bouncing and twirling around, desperately adjusting to this unfortunate and unwanted form of ballistic travel, he now had in front of him, an unusual flock of jagged little pills to swallow, with regards to which parts of the body he would use to progressively reduce his motion. Watching that gravel move from like… four inches—looking out for the least abrasive bits—was eye blistering enough given his velocity, but sacrifices had to be made: First his palms, then elbows, then his left hip and corresponding butt-cheek, one after the other, began grinding themselves against the pavement. Omni was running out of options and worst still, his traffic accident hadn’t actually finished yet—It would seem, Mr K Arma hadn’t finished with slicing himself a thick wedge of inevitable action packed nanodrama!

With complete immersion in his no-shorts-taking survival-mode-

plus, he instinctively used all those unrecorded, now mythological BMX mangles he’d witnessed his friends get into as kids—notwithstanding the ones in which he’d also been involved; life lessons; early rough and tumble techniques that as a young juvenile peddling off makeshift ramps at high speed, landing and buckling into limestone chippings, would have a crash-prone Omni back then manoeuvring and shifting, attempting to engineer his destination across summer-parched, arid bike tracks, while desperately praying for alternatives, but ultimately, only to wind up in a heap further along, slowly emerging tearful from a cloud of dust over at the camel hump section of the track like some unpaid stunt double, having ripped his hand-me-down clothes and learned a little something about the earth’s gravity, not to mention losing his hard-stolen 10p meant for an Icepole or Videogame on the way back down the steep Dudley Road.

But now in full bloom and presently in a little spot of bother, Omni (always known amongst his big sisters for an uncanny ability to slip out of life’s tightest headlocks) could no longer employ anymore BMX-style evasive measures, for this menacing lamppost was advancing ever-closer towards him. So he ended up making his decision right then, in bullet-time, ensuring his shins took the impact of the collision and not his ribcage. The initial, anti-climatic-contact preceding the following few moments of the crash, just felt more like two extremely dead legs that in no time, maybe, could be walked off, before a quick look for feds and a swift hop on the bike making a discreet exit from the crash scene drawing as little heat as possible—(how wide of the mark was he, eh?)—because, as his lower legs actually hit the lamppost, deflecting off in what felt like a vortex of vivic slow-motion, the dust settled while a deep bellowing rumble that was Omni’s not-so-innocent Sunday ride to Gadgets house in Balham, thudded away into the mushy twirling distance leaving the muffled quiet and still oculus of a storm spinning further out—Permitted by warptime it now started to move along its path bringing Omni into a new whirl (or world) of chaos.

Helmet still on, he began to scream in anticipation of the next stage of pain, subconsciously knowing it must get worse any second now!

He screamed for roughly twenty seconds, and intended then to scream at the female driver running towards him. She was also screaming, hands waving about frantically to passers-by begging them to stop and help, which some of the more compassionate folk did. The assistance they provided was instinctive. Travelling from the opposite way, first to border the situation was a burly builder-type who seemed to epitomise the country. Carriageways now a landing strip he launched from his truck, opened-backed, to throw silent orders at four of the six lanes, halting almost all traffic with his purposeful appearance.

The visor of his black and red crash helmet was steamed-up, and all the voices inquiring into his injuries, led by that stocky builder, sounded indistinguishable from each other among all the initial commotion.

Passionate imploring by the powerless observers to stay still, to forget about who was at fault and keep calm, don’t move and to breathe, seemed barely audible, although most of them were close enough doing all they could under the circumstance—which was to quickly find out if there were any doctors present or surgery’s in sight. Their urgent decrees just sounded stifled, low in volume, muffled. But an extremely furious and irate Omni would have none of it, and even tried to get up (until the builder along with other motorists’ finally, just about, persuaded him to prioritize and to firstly, again keep still!) His body went into the first stages of shock previous to removing his helmet. He raised it just past his eyebrows, barking at this other short Persian-looking driver involved in the collision—who just so decided to change her mind at the wrong time and jump lanes, apparently without looking! But the other uneasy pedestrians, nearby onlookers, and drivers who came trying to help in some way could see some ugly things which Omni couldn’t, not from under that only slightly-raised, mist-filled helmet.

They were practically holding him down while confirming who’d finally gotten through to the emergency switchboard and requested an ambulance.

All this took time, giving Omni a moment to remember the package, plus the lack of insurance on his matching black and red racing bike, which obviously was near, because it could equally be heard and sensed around the crash-site but curiously, could not be seen. He fondled his pockets momentarily (of which there were many) checking for a bulge.

Beforehand, two ambulances had arrived, associate sound, and light proceeding them, with lanky-looking Bluecoats pulling up ahead.

Both groups began correspondence, though the Illuminous Yellow- and-Greencoats were already administering disorientating vapours to Omni through a face mask—Progress on getting him onto the ambulance had halted as a decision couldn’t be made whether or not to move the spine, reason being, there was a possibility of additional backbone fractures which Omni fiercely protested (and demonstrated by propping onto one side) wasn’t the actual case.

ONE ROM-COM TOO MANY

Layered in olive-green army fatigues from thermal dungarees to a XXXL military style field jacket and combat boots, Omni tried to look around for an A-alike within hand-gesturing distance who he could wink or nod to, and hopefully hand this tiny package over to be disposed of in guile, low-budget roadsweeper method. He spotted then proceeded to pre-judge and profile this guy, long braids, wearing a baseball cap hanging around the periphery, but duke never came close enough to all the swarming paramedics, still crouching down like Amerindian football defensive-line backers.

Omni looked around for his motorbike. It was still nowhere to be seen but oddly, felt as though it was still on, revving away between his legs just under his right shin, vibrations and all, which was strange, but, this aforementioned right limb was also out of sight. ‘Huh? Eh?’ he thought, trying to crunch the math, plus locate the bike. He tried to relax and think about it but couldn’t, the pain was too much, legs now in that physiological don’t touch me mode.

The youngest ambulance woman did her utmost to occupy Omni while the decision was made to drive to Queen’s College, but police-overseers wanted a time-slice too, choosing now to embark upon ill-timed institutional protocol. Slightly offended on Omni’s behalf, one hand guiding the stretcher, the other clearing the way, a deal was brokered by this ambulance woman (who secretly, maybe, as a medic, didn’t feel the Bluecoat tactics either, plus, obviously concerned for the immediate welfare of her road casualty in this case, held out her invisible righteousness card high, making an even better deal born of this particular urgency). So the overseers fell back on the issue, for now, ending up saying they’d meet Omni at the trauma room to answer a few more questions south instead.

All birdcrap thus established, stretcher wheels now extended, lifting him up a couple of yards, still puzzled as to its whereabouts Omni asked exactly where his bike was (to rahtid!) At this point one of the other medics on site stepped in to interject, taking control of one corner of the stretcher. He was younger still, whispering in detail that it had hit a metal fence and laid in better condition than he did, about twenty meters behind the crowd; Black, with classic Victorian-plantation-sweat design, this fence ran hundreds of meters down to the Oval cricket ground.

The latest paramedic, more talkative, of similar age, without even asking verbalized on Omni’s behalf that genetically-inherited, all-consuming fury at overseers, distracting cleverly (for Omni’s own good actually, busy snarling at Bluecoats when he should listen to those trying to help him), explaining further how the bike was near the police car, visible between the legs of bystanders being given the usual textbook suspicious scrutiny, and a much closer inspection.

This thought silently amped Omni further, along with the received realization that his two legs were in fact broken, and furthermore, his brain was thinking that his leg was still on his bike!—Which by extension meant that some bones, somewhere under those trousers of his were definitely fractured because of their weird sensation, and position—As the highly probable notion swirled around Omni’s foggy head his legs began to hurt intensely.

Omni was carefully positioned inside one of the two ambulances and told to prepare to have trousers sliced open and his now-confirmed fractures re-aligned. After that was done, (stopping all that bloody growling), and when the medic removed the pen from between Omni’s teeth, he quietly grabbed the attention of the younger of the two paramedics from the other team, this time half propping-up on one shoulder, calling out some improvised slang, right as they were about to step off the ambulance back into the road, after just assisting in holding him down while his right shin-bone and left thigh-bone were being re-straightened.

‘Psssst!’ squeezed Omni from the tongue, alerting the eyebrow-pierced but extremely efficient ambulance guy who then turned around. And there for about a Zone1 minute, Omni pleaded with the him, accounting that since, as an emergency procedure they’d cut through his combat dungarees which now rendered them useless, they could, maybe, make the situation less unfortunate for him? This medic, who’d probably heard it all before, had a poker face but Omni sensed he was amused somewhat, all this dozy yip-yap coming through an uncomfortable facemask, not to mention, predicament.

Fearful and admirably he persisted, drawing this battle-hardened quick-thinking medic’s attention down to where he had a large Velcro-tipped side pocket. It contained an object to be disposed of at an opportunity which Omni didn’t think would present itself for a long time yet, besides, it had to be out of his pocket and off his person before the police met up with him at Trauma. He ended his entertaining, impassioned explanation, with that hopefully persuasive phrase ‘D’ynah mean?’ Luckily, the medic did understand, and was surprisingly prepared to go beyond the call of duty; He took the small package when handed to him, disguised in the form of a most grateful yet deceptive handshake.

*     *     *

The journey down the overly congested vein of SE1 called Walworth Road was pure agony, excruciating and acutely painful, by far the most pain ever felt during his forcespan-orbits of life round the sun. As sleep-deprived doctors of various specialities buzzed about in preparation for surgery, one, clutching a disposable pen and clipboard, approached warning Omni that the Bluecoats were outside the trauma room wanting to speak with him. He was now unsure of what card to play but, this observant, extra helpful doctor although obviously overworked, let Omni know he didn’t have to accept their request if he didn’t want to; of course so, instinct ordered he decline.

This was obeyed while a beguilingly demure anaesthetist wearing petal-shaped Indian gold earrings, with apparently religious engravings, swiftly put a syringe into his wrist. Omniversals’ sense of apprehension was being subjugated with some effort until then, but, perhaps for the better, it was now replaced by a sense of intrigue relating to that tiny material object almost welded onto her ear, the unusual reverse side, apparent, whenever she turned her head down towards his feet. She leaned over, looked at the label on his opposing arm while continuing inquiry into the nature of his all-too-common accident.

Giddy drowsiness descending, and puzzled by the nature, and possible origin of her jewellery he slipped away, off, into closing stages of final moments before being put to sleep and rushed through to theatre.

IF OLD YE ENGLISH EVOLVES…

WHY CAN’T LITERATURE YO?

From what must have been at least twenty four hours, being caught up in synthesising drug-induced dreams, cogent ones, about pre-empting disaffected Tories, with swarms of cyborg data analysts all around him, the ward Omni eventually awoke to was noisy, quite unfamiliar, as this was the first time he’d been a hospital patient, not to mention the first time going through post-surgical recovery. Sky-blue, thin, poorly decorated curtains had been pulled completely around his bed. The only things in sight were a small well-used chair, a cabinet, with a jug of water placed on top, and a slim eating table down by his feet. Slowly, he painfully exhaled, straining his eyeballs up towards the old-looking, dust-covered, creamy ceiling where photon waves/particles were being emitted, semi-directionally, down from a long series of narrow plastic light shades.

The ceiling had knobbly iron beam supports, portraying that familiar old city bridge look, (you know, that lumpy bird-dropping-stained appearance of being painted over once too many)?

He hadn’t the strength, or the pain threshold, to do anything else but use his sense of hearing to work out which voice came from where, and which of the four or five blobs of human animated colour, seen through those drapes—(symbolizing a new temporary jurisdiction border now in occupation)—he could assign these, assorted, varied accents toward.

One voice he managed to filter out sounded like a local ageing cockney, real local, most likely Zone2, spitting out Second World War stories about Amerindian-patented Nazi bombs levelling north Camberwell, which preceded construction of that massive Aylesbury Estate just off Elephant Junction—(an eyesore now, seen as the biggest social shackle in town but the acid test is… could just anybody blend in there)?

Another voice was a husky West-African accent, presenting a more resilient, upbeat outlook, seemingly inspired by Yeshua The Anointed One, frequently name-checked by many—including that chirpy voice talking—as Hesus Ben Yosef. Omni lay for a while, concerning himself with the fate of all those proto-religions, rapidly disappearing from mineral-rich tropic-regions of clement zones that this, energetic tone of voice, obviously was born in.

Killing the onslaught of leg pain through frustratingly slow transgressions of time, he wondered considerations off even more, into concern for a, self created, personally inconsequential topic, like… erm… Cultural Adoption and Acquisition, which happened every time he heard this old but zestful man evangelize to patients or staff members who he came into contact with.

Another unavoidable sound on the ward was from the mouth of a boisterous, over-compensating Jafaican who turned out, of all places, to be of Sardinian background! Unimpressed, Omni again pondered off somewhere else, tugged by a mental soundtrack, but this time, into what it was that made West Indians so ultra-magnetic, and while scanning choice lyrics, endeavoured to find a gap of difference between the sentiments of Bob Dylan and Bob Marley: In this stairway search, cross-referencing early songs for a clue, or a lead of some kind, he was defeated.

Omni started his recovery off by re-hydrating; slowly building-up to government institution food, once the urge to vomit and the feeling of nausea had passed. Focused for now entirely on pain management, he spent most of the following two days shut off in his cubicle, either compulsively replaying the crash (and every moment that led up to it) until his brain began to fizz, or lay bored, trying to perform spirit-ops; that’s to say, attempting to make a suitable spiritual evaluation of the many people he was unintentionally eavesdropping on, after all, it’d be only a matter of time before the curtains would be all-of-a-sudden yanked open by some super-busy nurse in top gear struck hard with a serious case of time-famine, and then he’d finally get to meet all of them.

THE MORE PETENTIOUS, THE MORE APPREHENSIVE THE SENTENCE

Time slowly marched forward in unison, with the return of his memory and the diminishing groggy side-effects of that toxic-but-useful anaesthetic—him, an impatient patient; it was a feeling he could well do without. As time passed, and the sense of ‘what the heck have I done?’ continued, more earnest, solicitous feelings started to take hold, pushing up a short succession of wrinkles, deep and fleshy between his brows. That furrowed crevice feature, crumpled, traversing his forehead like the Caucus Mountains, was permanently establishing itself when he noticed two consultants, and a female Indo-European surgeon purposefully skating his way. Typically well-ish-spoken the surgeons opened the exchange, briefing a super-tentative and troubled Omni on what procedures had been done to him. ‘How are your legs doing?’ one doctor asked. Omni thought about it, then an answer, then questioned if the answer was truthful and worth telling, then lied and said ‘Oh they’re fine’. After that Omni sat back, as the motorcycle crash, like a plague, besieged his mind and the consultants spoke on; the mistakes, plus all that surrounded it, the reason, the compulsion, the regret, the… if only.

One of the them told Omni, laying there, all bandaged and tangled-up in his dressings, what one could come to expect in a worst case recovery scenario, and after that, the other consultant told him he should prepare himself to spend at least another six weeks bed bound, alone, with those tubes and wires (Omni was pointing to which he could actually see), exiting his body. He asked if it was normal to be able to feel those rigid, and synthetic, external-artery-looking things, rago coming out of him.

They replied with an affirmative before making the return journey back to the more swanky quarters of hospital, explaining it was ‘. . . all a matter of probability at the moment’. A huge multi-coloured butterfly (just like the one that landed on Kenshiro’s meditating shoulder during Fist of the South Star) appeared right in the pit of Omni’s stomach as he considered this probability while they then walked away, pledging to return in about 48hrs but, because Omni had already began quietly buggin’ out at more easily-imaginable prospects, he hardly even heard—Omni was already at the mercy of his thoughts:

Anything associated with motorcycles, crashes and the like, for the rest of his years would return him to that crunchtime continuosa, worst still, he could share this with whom? Profound enzyme-inducing sentences bounced around the walls of his cranium, each hour, frozen in estimative analyses of these shifting odds regarding possible amputation. The more he compulsively thought about it over the course of those dreadful days, the more he began to crap himself!

Still locked in the ramifications of being footless his under-rated food was brought round to him, intended to tie him over until later, and which he forced down without any of the usual toffee-nosed complaints.

Nights became understandably long as that sexy arch-nemesis from the bottom of his childhood garden—ever-young Miss Fairysomnia—came round for an antagonizing and unwelcome visit, keeping him, up, and his dreams, wet.

One needle attached to his arm was connected to a diamorphine dispensing machine which gave Omni the most horrid thoughts whenever he’d slip into a long-overdue powernap. It took a while to make a connection between the drug and the partial recall but as soon as he was certain of which machine was doing what, he separated the tubing from the needle and ripped the needle from his arm.

The nurses found this out of course, and documented it amongst all the other su-su surrounding the incident. It created quite a storm, as to their dismay Omni wasn’t accepting advice to re-connect the machine. This little rebellion was also noted in the comments section of his clipboard down at the base of his bed frame, so now all consultants and physiotherapists could read about Omni’s unorthodox antics—only six days in and already Maverick (the street name he tried sometimes to introduce himself as) was a marked man on the ward, known to staff as hazardous, although that was another thing Omni was kept in the dark about until he formed friendships with a few nurses of similar age.

One of these upon whom he disclosed his aka to was a predictably, flirtatious-only-on-duty type nurse named Seattle who wore hypnotic Nag Champa fragrances to keep the patients spirits—and conjugal weaponry—up, and on-swolle. Her shift pattern was one week on one week off so, when she came like a whirlwind of entertainment onto the ward, initially unaware of Omni’s unfrolicsome warface being practised inside his cubicle, innocently she pulled the curtains back, revealing the injured Omni to outer patient beds primarily, in all his moody glory.

DIGEST THIS YOU NOBLE DOLPHIN

The swelling prevented surgery on the second leg and pressure of the fluid was cutting off blood supply to the foot. The first operating surgeon had told him he’d come to make daily assessments to keep tabs on progress but, time was against him and if things continued a preventative amputation would definitely have to be performed. This part was overheard: word bounced around, and in due course Seattle came to see if she could reassure a worried, anxious Omni.

Before she came he considered all he could grasp, which constantly enlarged itself. He rubbed his oriental-sized beard, determined somehow to try and figure this whole thing out, spending hours drawn into an attempt of trying to imagine life without a foot, wondering how he would manage…? How he would compete in Sincity…? The girls lost, along with his moby…? Would he turn into a blubbering smackhead like those war vets who slept in the graveyard…?—Like a pestilence these scenarios dogged the remainder of Omni’s hospital admission.

On day nine luckily, the swelling began to reduce in the second leg and the decision was made to drive a pin down the length of the bone, held in place by four screws that would protrude the flesh and be seen just under the skin. This was a pretty common procedure, taken over the trickier option; employ some sort of ecto-frame, holding the three separated pieces of bone together.

That operation went well enough and Omni awoke in his cubicle to see his right leg now bandaged-up alongside his plaster-casted opposite leg. ‘Maybe the order to keep the foot raised wasn’t such an inconvenient suggestion after all?’ he thought to himself, beginning another period of extreme nausea from the surgery and long spells of ceiling-staring because of freshly weeping stitches compelling him not to move a muscle!

Noticing Omni had no visitors like the rest of the ward, some of the younger nurses with frequent shifts made extra investigations into Omni’s likes and dislikes, this included Seattle. He and she had more than romanticizing their existence in common, though that was the main object at the trunk of their photon-thirsty tree. Another Supposed Infatuation Junkie (nah, Under Rug Swept album—could I have said it better myself?) he met was Nivja Edison from radiography. They’d spoken at least four times now, and with nothing but redtop glossmags to read, being transported across the other end of the hospital to see this classmate-pale nostalgia-inducing, part-time Goth, was the highlight of his day. She really did remind him of some straight-A-Bellhemian-Forest- type student who got swallowed up inside thrash metal and puked back out again, Indication? That giveaway spooky bracelet dangling on her arm: four rows of links, and metal bar welded on one end, a hollowed circle of similar thickness on the other.

The bar went into the circle to link around her wrist and didn’t seem to fit her current style at all but Nivja, as he would find out, was one girl who genuinely did have the artistic license to rock almost anything her heart could reach for—What’s more, because of this whole, sterile empty room situation, (lest for that starwars equipment bearing down on them from the ceiling) there seemed to be hardly any ice for them to brake. On two occasions while having his leg X-rayed, a problem with the said cyclops technology gave them an opportunity to embark on a courtship quite inappropriate (depending on the observer’s perspective mind you) but enjoyable still, and afterwards, Niv became by far his most frequent visitor.

With mostly hidden adoration, he thanked her like a ‘real lifesaver’ should be thanked, for bringing him over food and personal music-analysing equipment—(Omniversal does not listen to music, only observes like he’s in the industry and produced it himself… go figure!)—She even, mercifully, raided her disposable-income-wasting big brother’s kitchen for other useful gadgets.

‘Poor Omni’ she thought, rummaging around Nick’s drawer, swiping one of his redundant cellphones with just enough talktime for Omni to keep family members one-hundred miles north informed of his being attacked by a Mercedes Benz!

*     *     *

Now, Niv used to wet the bed as a kid, too much, more than all her friends and relations, and got, understandably one would say, more melancholic about it than the few cousins who got a drenching whenever they stayed over. It only just stopped short of a debilitating throwback from a past life or something. Her mother Aubrey, in a vain bid to squash this bad habit utilized motivational fear tactic’s which worked for the most part but unfortunately for Nivja, it did have its own particular side effects and bonus emotions that when sophisticated enough, she scrutinized for relevance to all-round human evolutionary survival purpose. Of course, she was too young to isolate-then-appraise such threshold technicalities in primary school but, did notice one constant as she grew up into an apparently typical, whining and winging teenager—it was this secret, sharpedged, inwardly imprisoning her from all sides, nailed in the periodical fear she felt, eclipsing a virtue not yet greeted or acknowledged at that young time of life.

Sadly she lost her father at four but couldn’t remember a thing about it. Frustrated by lack of reliable data on the episode, nonetheless that made her measure how much of a significant effect those events had on her nowadays. ‘If only I could recall’ she sometimes would zoneout at the X-ray machine and say to herself, ‘. . . then, I could gauge what it was that could have been so traumatic as to cause care homes, bed wetting and child psychologists…’?

She applied memories of herself she had from when she’d just turned fifteen; where at school-required work experience she spent two months as a trainee nursery nurse. ‘So how would a four year old comprehend and process death, hmmm…’? She marvelled at the ramifications, toyed with queries, but had no answers, and doubted anyone else in her classroom era was speaking to referral shrinks at that early age.

‘Apparently’, she solidified to herself, ‘youths either complain, till they cry…? Those a bit older, over-dramatise, with words like Oh he’s crazy, She’s crazy, transferring blame, failing to pin it in one place while, the elderly, in due time, space, perspective, accept personal responsibility… seems to be the rule… right’?

Older, and conscious of paraphysical concoctions of the cerebrum looking for its designer, addressing them