| Unacceptable by Gerald Huml 3 A.M. I feel alone in this time zone. For light a halogen lamp roasts the ceiling, glow of the television screen paused in mid-violence, scallop shell nightlight illuminating the bottom stairs. It is now certain. Once during the past nine hours I stopped for a frozen dinner and trudged upstairs to stare into the square tiles and flush. From a window I unfocused out across the dark lawn. In the video game my outstretched hand forks lightning across yards of distance, immobilizing and blackening enemies to cinders. With intonations and deep concentration a shimmering barrier grows to defend me. I can command the undead to rise and lumber, to swing into foes their leaden arms or rusted axes, or with my iron amulet and a prolonged white flash teleport from one continent edge to another. I can even slow time itself to a halt. It is not enough. The long commute. The mornings and afternoons inside seated before a flat screen monitor dense with number columns, variance formulas, and highlighted yellow cells. After six plodding years life has less meaning. I had plans to be someone like myself, only better. So after work and on weekends, I live here, sequestered in a pixel world I shape, a world where I grow powerful and matter. One more level and I am a god. |
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