• 35



    Your fingers are turning more purple by the second, so the difficulty in using them to leverage yourself up the cords only increases as you inch further. Your weight must have strained the cords by now though, because one of them snaps, whirling you around on the roughness of the road and crunching your right pinky in three places. This gives you a little more freedom, however, to possibly act as a rudder to the car. You roll to one side, hoping to affect the car’s direction even slightly, but the mid-section of the remaining cords only snag and then wrap around a lone speed limit sign. Your arms are easily torn off at the sharp crack-back that occurs with cords wrapping their way around the sign’s post and your body is sent flying into the plain white canvas of an unused billboard.

    The following day, as your smeared blood has dried on the billboard, the rubber troll mask stapled somewhere in the middle of the stain, a couple drives by listening to Harry Partch. The male turns down the volume for a moment to comment on the unsightly advertisement, criticizing its absurdity.

    “Oh, it’s all about the audience in that case,” the female says in defense of the piece. “What’s that phrase they used to use to help normalize modern art in the mind of the public…messterpiece?”

    She turns up the music again.

    The End.




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