Brandon donned his latest acquisition—a genuine silk suit. The industrious little silkworms bordered on extinct, and he finally ranked among the international elite who could afford their cocoons. His was new money, thanks to polished attorneys and creative accountants, both armed with tarnished ethics.
He’d given himself two hours to make the one-hour trip from his penthouse to the corporate highrise across the gorge—one of a host of towers. And not the tallest. But he was only thirty-five, and the world was his chessboard, the match a move away from mate. In a few hours, a significant portion of the conglomerate’s assets would fall under his control.
He slipped into the leather recliner of his midnight-blue slider and tossed his briefcase on the seat beside him. “Headquarters. Skip the traffic and take the flyover.”
The slider’s cyber-system hummed to life. “Flyover not recommended.”
“Heavy traffic?”
“No traffic detected.”
Brandon mugged a face. “Then take the flyover.”
“Flyover not recommended.”
“Why not?”
“Flyover not recommended.”
“Override.” Brandon detached the console and typed his passcode, pleased to finally use the feature. He liked the idea of control, driving the slider instead of the slider driving him. The upgrade had cost him a small fortune. It would pay for itself that morning.
As the vehicle glided forward, Brandon closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. The slider veered from the congested rails onto the flyover, cruising into the pre-dawn darkness.
At the peak over the gorge, the slider decelerated and stopped. Brandon glanced out the window at the black depths below. Sunrise would soon carve sharp shadows across the cliffs and turn the river into molten gold. “Proceed.”
“Not recommended.”
“Overide.” He typed in the code.
“Not recommended.”
“God damn it. Override.” He stabbed the console and received the same reply. After a quick check of his watch, he peered into the darkness ahead. “Is there a traffic problem?”
“No traffic detected.”
“What the hell? How long to back up and take the other route?”
“Estimated time three hours.”
Brandon barked a curse. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands together, changing tactics. “Override slider functions.”
“Not recommended.”
“Override braking system.”
“Not recommended.”
“Okay, how about override acceleration?”
“Not recommended.”
Brandon’s fist slammed onto the console, and the glass screen cracked. He tossed the damaged hardware onto the passenger seat. There was no point. His fate was sealed. He’d lost out on the biggest deal of his life.
“Cyber system impaired, reverting to manual overrides.”
“Ha!” Brandon checked the time. He’d make it if he flew. With the brake released, he pressed forward on the throttle. The slider responded, accelerated. With a laugh, he opened her up, and the bitch roared like a beast with a taste for speed.
The machine screamed down the other side of the flyover, lurched sideways on a damaged span of rail, and leaped into the sky. The sunrise blinded him as the slider plummeted, its throttle clutched in his white-knuckled hands. The golden river smashed the windshield into his face, his life, in the end, beyond his control.
***
destiny
disavowed
underlings deal and grasp
gold with white-knuckled fists
rapt in night’s deceptive dreams they fly
eyes blinded by a distant sunrise
snared by reckless desire
seconds gained and years lost
illusions
of control
***
It’s been a long time since I shared a flash story. I hope you enjoyed it.
I combined it with a syllabic poem in response to Colleen Chesebro’s weekly #TankaTuesday Wordcraft Challenge. Her challenge was to make up our own syllabic form! Well, that was fun. The one above has syllables 3/3/6/6/9/9/6/6/3/3. I named it a Distillate because it’s a distillation of a larger story. My guess is that every story’s theme can be captured in a poem, no matter how large the book. What do you think?
Myths of the Mirror 