Falling.
I rush to you with my eyes open wide. I’ve protected you for years, but now you’re my undoing.
Worthless.
I gaze at the weapon clutched in my hand. My knuckles white with exertion. I cling to what’s familiar, but it mocks me. A tool for keeping the peace used in such a profane manner.
Futility.
I tried to stop them, but I wasn’t good enough. I did my duty with honor.
“Velocity two meters per second squared. Dispatching rescue drone.”
I snort at my ‘assistant.’ Or as much of a snort you can muster while falling. I’m reminded of a quip my partner said once: When trouble breaks out, the assistants break down. I kept up with all the maintenance, followed all the procedures. When the damn thing broke, I requisitioned a replacement.
I’d seen old videos of skydivers. They fall spread-eagle for maximum drag, but I’ve already reached terminal velocity. The problem is, they had a parachute. It’s been said, It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop at the end. It’s amazing what trivialities the mind conjures in a situation like this.
“Rescue drone deployed. Calculating time until intercept.”
It’s amazing I can hear the thing with the wind rushing over me. The sound is intense. If it weren’t for my cochlear implant, I’d never know if help was on the way. The implant inputs audio directly into my auditory cortex and detects the vibrations of the tympanic membrane in my ear when I speak.
“Drone inbound. Estimated time until arrival, thirty-seven seconds.”
Thirty-seven seconds.
“Assistant.” I said. “Access geolocation. Estimate time until impact.”
I hear the beep. “Five thousand nine hundred eighty seven feet until impact. Estimated time, thirty-three seconds.”
I feel tears briefly – the wind steals them and their meaning from me. The sky is so clear, I can see for miles and miles. Below, the patchwork of ground creates a mosaic. It would be beautiful if it didn’t mean my death.
Resigned to my fate, I holster my weapon. I suspect if the wind wasn’t biting my clothing, I might try to straighten my tie and jacket. If I have to be a corpse, I’d prefer to be a handsome corpse.
“Impact immanent. Reduce speed immediately.”
No shit. I think as I see less and less of the mosaic below. I squeeze my eyes and think about what led me here.
September 5th, 2014 at 19:00
Intense!
September 5th, 2014 at 19:00
I know, right? You need to get cracking on your story beginning.
September 5th, 2014 at 19:09
I’m on it.
September 6th, 2014 at 04:35
I enjoyed this a lot! I wan’t to know how he’s going to get out of this predicament.
September 6th, 2014 at 06:23
Thanks! I also want to know what got him into this situation.
September 8th, 2014 at 12:36
I really liked the single word sentences. Falling. Worthless. Futility. Well-played, sir.
September 8th, 2014 at 18:16
Thanks! You thinkin ’bout continuing it?
September 11th, 2014 at 10:36
I’m thinking I’ll try to finish “Rotten Girl” actually, if I don’t get distracted. I’m super amused by the idea of a dude writing erotica to make money on the sly.
September 11th, 2014 at 17:02
Nice hook. Job well done.
September 12th, 2014 at 09:56
You should continue it!
September 12th, 2014 at 11:54
Thanks:) I’m in the middle of rewrites galore right now, though. That’s why other peoples’ wriitng looks so good to me:)
September 13th, 2014 at 12:15
[…] pasted his beginning here, but please circle back to his original post and read more of his work (https://article94.wordpress.com/2014/09/05/velocity/). I think you’ll be […]
September 13th, 2014 at 16:28
I’m glad you liked the middle! I have an idea for the ending, but I’m going to hold onto it to see what the finisher does with it.
September 30th, 2014 at 07:27
It’s surprising what the brain conjures up in a person’s last moments. Mine would probably be something like ‘did I turn the cooker off before I left?’
Nice work, Mark! :)
September 30th, 2014 at 07:52
Thanks, HBC! Lisacle continued it, but unfortunately, no one finished it, so we’ll never know. :(