The hum of light is so steady that it’s hard to hear the vibrations. You can only feel them. Ricocheting off every illuminated presence in the room; this place is electric. Hard white and fast, the blinking is that of a scared mouse. It’s as if it doesn’t want to miss a thing, yet it’s always dodging in between open and closed. If I stare hard enough, I can see the light shaking. Quaking. With it’s indecisiveness to stay in two places at once. Like all things that flicker, it can only hit so hard before it’s all shot to shard.
Broken pieces of vision stream throughout the store front window, creeping under doorways. Slide to slot, they dodge the shock. Of electricity that sparks up when there’s too much darting. It skitters past the sidewalk landing square on a red tiled floor. It sinks at last. Darkly frank with a mind that is now made up. It seeps into the color like the red of roses ripping. Seemlessly. Cut together until it fits perfectly.
The colors come alive.
Interesting. What is that hum that fluorescents make sometimes? Most of these things are a bit too fast for us to discern or comprehend. The second paragraph was too hard for me.
This isn’t so much a story as it is a feast for the ears. I love the musical qualities of the wordplay here: “shot to shard,” “Slide to slot, they dodge the shock.” It’s staccato and works so very well with the sound and imagery of a popping, blinking neon light.
…the colours flash incandescently merely to fade into subtler shades of sharper ambiguity…^^~~~~
Brilliant. (The light and your writing.)