Hail the Size of Egos
markcmarino
Hail the size of Egos
Scott took a long time getting out of his seat. He had been sitting there since the Internet first went out, spinning tales about Thor, A-Ha, and other heroes from Norse mythology. It had been three days since the start of the blackout, and Scott had begun to – what the Norwegians call (though not in polite company) å Gubbe – which loosely translates as “to become an old man sitting in a chair all day and bitching about things.” Ah, these old bones, he said. They can tell when the rain is coming. Actually, hail. I remember the hail the size of Easter Eggs that fell one year in Norway. It fell the same year my Uncle Joe got old. Not gradually, but all of a sudden. He was sitting in the kitchen next to his wife who was eating a strong onion soup, too strong for the size of their tiny cabin near Bømlafjorden, when his nose just stopped working. Not a smell could enter in, nor air for that matter. Then his ears, his eyes, his spleen. Trying not to overreact, he turned his head toward where his wife had been sitting and tapped her hand. Instantly, as she saw his pores plug up, she recognized what had happened. Lovingly, she gave his hand a squeeze, not that he could feel it, since his skin had stopped feeling, and stood up from the table. She walked purposefully over to the kitchen counter, the one on which sat the broken mixer. Then she opened the drawer, the “everything drawer,” that miasma of miscellany that most of us keep in our kitchens, and then pulled out a sheet of paper, yellowed with age but not wrinkled, smooth as new skin. After a several minutes of hunting around for her reading glasses -- her collar, pocket, and finally top of her head – A-ha! where they were –she pulled them down and began scanning the sheet. At last, on the backside of the sheet with all that tiny writing, she found what she’d been looking for. Yep, there it was, his warranty had expired. And with that, Scott shuffled off to search from some lutefisk.
MM
Jeremy Hight
Scott took a long time getting out; the Internet first went out of control, spinning tales about Thor, A-Ha, and other heroes from Norse mythology.
Ah, those old bones, he thought.
Trying not to overreact, he turned his head toward where his avatar had been sitting and tapped its hand. Instantly, as he saw his pores plug up, he recognized what had happened. The world's skin had stopped feeling From sky to his skin was a hot humid drawer, the “everything drawer,” that miasma of miscellany, yellowed with age but not wrinkled, smooth as new skin.
Ego is convection he thought. No, it is a sort of eye stinging smog.
Scott walked across the kitchen and its black and white tile toward the window. The air seemed to cling to his body cloyingly now, almost a physical weight.