Bury me in warm memes. Send off the world as it nears its end with shimmering emoji. May the photoshop manicured selfies gird against mortality and the soil of the grave.
Bury me in erasure. Take the tiny porch light flicker of a soul, the algorithm of days, the data nexus of skin and memory. Hurl my eventual end past the dull glow of the cycloptic eye en-masse, the social media collective dulled and spasming with likes and video.
Bury me in the skin of old photos. The tensile way of body first entering cooler water in warm night star ashed or soon to rain. Tuck me away into Polaroids for whatever is to come. May film be bunker. May once exposure, that gently stolen bit of past sun warm as whatever is coming draws near.
A monster with an oversized tie teases world war with 140 characters in the bowels of night. He beckons economic collapse with each foolish childish utterance.
Cover me in the shelter of away, of past, of not here, of not now, please.
The old online photos were opened and drained for fluids. Waters and drinks came out in tiny portions to be stored. The people made a small sound no one knew film had captured but then it was gone. Some were even words said to whoever the photographer was. Suns burned again for a second and breezes rode out from long past afternoons. The phd student had figured out that a filmic moment was a stilled film be it a second. He also found a way to extract the essence of what was captured after scanning the photos and tying them to a scent and flavor database and algorithm.
The result was at once a beginning and cliff end. One bled of sensory breath images simply were themselves again but the warmth was enough to heat his tired hands before closing the lab door to go sleep.
What remains from the erasure of my short story 4532 oak drive
I wrote a short story, stopped its publication, and have been slowly spreading the short story across banal seemingly utilitarian websites I have created. The concept is can a narrative burst open across the net and still resonate…can the dull web be art? Here are the core websites I made
and a meta video of all that was lost when the initial story was erased:
Jeremy Hight is the author of two books with a third soon. His book “What Remains” (published by Free Dogma Press) is a short story collection composed by taking all tech and sci fi out of sci fi films and taking what remains into prose. His collaborative narrative work once edited live by earthquake data, “Carrizo Parkfield Diaries” is in the Whitney museum artport. He is currently working with Damon Loren Baker on prose that changes based on how it is read. He teaches Creative Writing and English Comp and lives with his soul mate Lisa and his amazing cat Samson.