Saigon Ice by Tran
Share Article Tran requested ice java in an alley off Dream Street filled with jolly plastic Santa Claus armies and tinsel. Tis the season.
Rita opened a large insulated orange box. Her left hand wrapped in a blue cloth picked up a chunk of white ice. She slammed a hammer on ice. It cracked. Fissures of released pressure, jagged lines, perfect beautiful lightning spread deep through ice.
She held global warming in her hot little left hand.
She smashed it again with all her power and strength creating fragments of elemental particles.
A sharp piece of ice pierced Tran’s left eye. The sensation of pain was immediate and direct cushioned by a delicious feeling as ice melted through his retina, a pupil, nerve endings, frontal lobe, cerebral tissue and layers of perception altering visual organic matter as light transmitted new electric signals from rerouted optic nerves to the cerebral cortex.
Ice quality reflected everything around him. The stimulant of ice was a mirror.
The world is a mirror, he reflected with crystals shimmering inside kaleidoscopes of ice.
Illusions were smooth and clear. Buried inside the chunk of white ice he witnessed long jagged magic, mystery and sparkling universes emitting glowing crystal rivers.
The world is ice. Everything you see, hear, touch, taste and feel is ice, a sibylline language of clarity.
She dropped the block of ice back in the box.
She collected chips in a glass, added thick brown coffee, condensed milk extract, a straw and a spoon.
Here you are, she said, handing it to Tran. You look thirsty.
I am, thank you.
End of ACT 1
