Cross Section Red

The wind overhead was suffocating. Standing at the now familiar street corner, “5th and King, right after the Java Nation!” recalling Jacob’s excitement over the phone. Now, nine months later, reality of a deep gray contrast overshadowing any remembered intimacies with this place.

Standing in front of the cold pastel stone figure of the plaza. Grecian ideas of physical perfection marked occasionally with jarring reminders of gen-mod sequences. The thing’s skin, a cascade of light grays tones rolling over analogs of physicality. It’s extremities all tinged with some kind of cross-section-red, quickly fading away as it crawled up each limb.