Entrance

The temple was hushed in darkness. They sat in holy communion, the man and the god.

The man was slack of jaw and greasy of skin, his hair lank and unwashed. His limbs hung like salami in a butcher shop.

The god was a cubic rectangle. It danced and sang for the man, and gave him the form and semblance of all manner of goodly things. The god seemed to fill the man with its beaming brilliance, which the man absorbed silently.

A quieter, subtler thread carried other things away, from man to god, but nobody noticed that at all.

The Revolucion Will be Televised

“Ben, can you bring the toolbox over here?” 

Ben entered from the side where the front wall ought to have been.  “Que?  No comprendo que me dice.”

“Crap, it’s gone on the fritz again,” said George.  “Picking up Telemundo or something.”  He reached up and banged on the ceiling.  The garage jumped, growing fuzzy. 

“I think you fixed it,” said Ben, before tripping over the knee-high white letters that formed as he spoke. 

The laugh track cut in, rolling across them as they sat frozen in place.  “You lot shut the hell up!” snarled George. 

The laughter only grew louder.