Fishing for Allure


Everything begins with a word. This story began with a word and though it may be argued convincingly that the story rests upon a solid foundation of “Everything,” as begins the first sentence, yet truer still is the seniority and precedence of the title and, should we proceed without delusion to discover the impetus of this story, the word “allure” will be known as the first word of this story.

With a chill in my bones I sat down to my Typomatic mechanical writer and began to pedal. Electricity had been in short supply and during the third month of the seige it became apparent that the most valuable possessions in my storage room would be my bicycle frame and the alternator from the otherwise working urban scooter, a worthy steed but for its petroleum thirst, for which there would likely never be a cure.

Beneath my window of packing tape and glass shards harvested from neighboring alleys I could hear the impact of fists as they imparted damage into living bodies for whom this morning’s careless wandering would be their last. A feeling of comfort soaked through my body, defrosting my joints and warming my brain which, now defrosted, made the chilling realization of my own retracted and shriveled human sympathy and chased the feeling away.

What could such a frost-hearted writer improve in this world? Whose lot might his fork-tongued words improve? Toward what benefit could anyone apply the workings of this craven mind?

In an act of hopelessness more devoid of hope than the tiniest snowflake upon hearing of its condemnation to an afterlife, short though it may be, upon the burning steppes of Hell, I proceeded to bombard the assailants in the alley with the largest thing I could lift and hurl through the patchwork window: myself.