One Thousand One... "...for Jen..." And he closes his eyes. And he spreads his arms. He breathes deep, smelling the humidity, dust and ozone. And the world glows. He sees the blood vessels in his eyelids. ...And then the crash.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment. It's convenient. There are many nice places to go. At 7:30, or thereabouts, I make dinner. I work. I exercise. Sometimes I get depressed. Sometimes I get elated. Sometimes I drink.

I don't sleep too well. Cars pass. Trucks rumble. People in the adjoining suites talk to each other. Sometimes they talk loudly. It doesn't matter. Somedays, they're the only voices I hear. Sometimes I close my eyes. I imagine the room is 1,000 years wide. I'm walking forever. But the couch is always there.

One day begets the next. The coffee brews.

But tomorrow always comes. It brings its hope. It brings its shame. It brings sun. It brings rain. One person dies. Another is born. The traffic lights stop flashing yellow and red and the street comes alive. Trains pass. The city wakes up. So do I.

At work, people say their good mornings. They do their jobs. They stare into space. They panic. They dream. They talk. They wonder. Then the day is over. They've earned some money. So have I.

And it all happens again.

It is more than amazing how much of my life I cash in this way. Trading a dusty track of days for a youth wasted on coffee and liquor. I breathe in the barroom... the reek of tobacco and beer, the shouts and hollers of temporary joy, the electric vibration of sex, the feeling of utter hopelessness waiting outside on the sidewalk. All us people avoiding one thing: home.

But it's so warm outside. It's humid. I want to spin pirouettes down Fourth Street. In the immortal cloudy dusk, the traffic roars. The red lights smile down on the asphalt and the hot cars. I just want to walk... forever. Counting streets. Counting blue cars. Counting happy couples drinking coffee on restaurant patios. Chiming silverware. Skateboard wheels on cracked concrete. The thick, lardy breath of a deep fryer. Diesel fumes. The dust makes me blink and a tear runs down my face.

The air is thickening. It is a constant warm breath across my face. It's going to rain. I can hear it rumbling across the Prairies. To the west, the sky is dark above the sunset. I muse that the wind pushes me up the street. Forever. Past glass towers and skid hotels. The streetcar rings its bell and crosses the street; it's electric motors whine and squeal. The rumble is still faint to the west.

The restless transients shuffle over the crosswalks. The crowds sway. The red hand flashes, the white man walks. DONT WALK. WALK. Red, yellow, green, orange, white. A blue spark from the streetcar. A cup rattles over the asphalt, caught by a gust. Plastic bags caught on still-bare tree branches crack like whips as the plodding wind catches them.

High on a bridge, I look down at the river. It rushes between the abutments. White water cataracts over boulders worn smooth. Cars and busses and trucks and vans pour across the structure. The metal joints bang with each passing wheel. The sky is darkening... ever darker. Bright fork lightening hits out on the Prairie somewhere.

One thousand one... one thousand two... one thousand three... one thousand four... Crack! Bright, crisp thunder. Rope neck break. Another fork flashes. One thousand one...

A drop hits my face. Another lands on the dusty concrete; it forms a clot of mud. More drops. Faster. Bigger. Dime sized. The sound of a million drops hitting the dusty pavement, the dirty cars. Dissolving the dry tear on my face and washing away the street grit.

One thousand one thousands. How far does a thunderclap travel? I can see...my mind's eye can see...the waves of sound pushing out from a bolt of lightening. The clouds pulse with sheet lightening. The whole sky rumbles. The rain is a torrent. One thousand one...Two thousand one... an infinity of thousands crammed into a single millisecond. Crack! Boom! I am a storm cloud... I am ball lightening... I am...

And he closes his eyes. And he spreads his arms. He breathes deep, smelling the rain, humidity, dust and ozone. And, for just a moment, the world glows so bright. He sees the blood vessels in his eyelids. ...And then the crash.

- MAK
Written: 30 VI 2000 CE, Calgary, Alberta, Canada.

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This story, layout, and associated graphics are Copyright © 2000 M A Kitchen, and are his intellectual property. Although this was posted in Yahoo!/Geocities' webpace the author asserts that the above work is his and that no copies are to be made without his express written permission (excluding quotations for review and discussion purposes). Excluded from the previous are the two lightening photos which were scanned from promotional literature; the literature did not credit the photographer.