The grass was on fire with color, big sheets of it flowing off like mirage, wicking away like candlelight into the atmosphere around him, where the color cooked up off the field and met the sky in an interplay of all the heat and damp air. He walked determined, strides vast, each one a league, each one a mile or more. Everything was vibrating at different frequencies; his eyes were somewhere between 30 and 80 hertz, his skull faster, his spine slower, and everything around him pulsed with intense possibility. The world was crouched like a cat about to pounce, and he was it’s playmate and prey, it’s sacrificial calf.

Over the hill here, and down into the depression, the only valley in his world, where the hole spat water into the grass when it rained, and a pond would form. When the water gathered here, he’d sit and feel the sun on his face, hear the nearby cars fade into the sound of running water, stretch out and bask like the stray cats that mau’d at him or goggled at him from treetop, walltops, and rooftop. Sometimes peoples things would drop out of the storm drain and he’d fish them out of the dark water, set them out to dry and take them. He’d found a good bag that way, one that could be carried by hand, or on the shoulders, and it had even had a pair of bright red track shoes inside, which he saved. He always brought the Long Stick to the pond when it would appear, now, and had even started carrying it on the buses, too. He’d had a bit of protest, about that, from the troll that drove the steel thing around, but he’d only had to stare at him a little to make it a non-issue. He knew trolls would turn to stone if you stared at them without blinking. And so he’d taken his seat, as was his place, and the statue of a troll drove the bus.

Over the hill, finally, no pond today of course, as there had been no rain. Once past the hill there was the Divide, where the cars nested with moody expressions, grazing the asphalt like bison. He liked the Divide, liked the cars that migrated to and from there. You could walk right up and pet most of them, and they wouldn’t make a sound, and only the occasional one would start to shriek at you, and you really had to be pushing those around, for the most part. He’d been petting a little blue one, a flowery bug car, once, when suddenly she started shrieking at him, whooping and hollering her horn and electronics out. He’d tried to soothe the little female (he could usually tell their gender by color), but to no avail. He rubbed behind her rear views, down her back, and even dared to stroke her exaust, but the car only shrieked for help, varying her crys.

That car was not here today. He paled at the thought of the Old Long Stick in her windshield, how he had tried to kill the car, and when he jabbed his hand into the broken glass to get the Old Long Stick back, he’d gotten her blood all over his hands, all over the cuts on his hands, and it hurt him. He’d run off without his weapon, Some people shouting at him from the ranks of the cars, bare fists waving in the air, and he had silently sworn never to commit autocide again, for fear of the long term repercussions.

He navigated the stately beasts deftly, dancing through their shadows and through the beams of colored light that passed through their windows. He peeked into the back of one car, seeing she had recently eaten a pair of sweaters, and a tiny stuffed bear, and they were scattered about in her innards. The poor thing must have been starving, he’d nodded to himself. He skipped a little as the light made colored bands around his feet, and stood up on tip toe to look into the belly of a big alpha car, a black one with a strange yellow triangle marking on it’s vast back window.

He was shocked to see the car was pregnant, and his mind reeled for an explanation for why it’s belly contained a tiny human child. His eyes flitted to the exaust, and back to the steel womb of the car. He couldn’t imagine the deviant. He rapped gently on the car’s window. The human child, a little boy, turned and stared at him. He was wearing some kind of carapace, sitting in it really, and he was strapped into it as though he was about to go skydiving. Perhaps remnants of his egg’s shell? The child waved a little, and Deuce waved back, then yelled.

“Are you alright, human child?”

The kid waved, laughed and gurgled, rolled his head, and he realized that there was a tiny chink in the cars armor, in the window, a narrow space about an inch wide. Air seemed to be able to pass through it, but in the heat he couldn’t imagine that anyone would enjoy baking in a cars belly at this high hour. Maybe it was incubating.

He was just trying to stick his fingers into the crack in the window when a human adult female approached him. He’d heard little hoof click clacks on the ground from behind him, but had learned that the females with hoofs usually sneered at him if he looked at their strange feet when they walked around. Sometimes they yelled, but he had terrific trouble understanding them, even seeing them sometimes, and so he didn’t look over his shoulder, and so didn’t expect the sudden bludgeoning force to the back of his head.

He crumpled to the ground, his right hand stuck in the window, and he hung there staring down into the asphalt abyss and watching stars flicker to life and die in accelerated time. There were a few novas in the black panel that filled his vision when he was hit, again, and then again. He tugged to dislodge his hand and it finally came loose, and he grabbed blindly for the Long Stick that must have rolled beneath the cars underside. He rolled onto his back to face his assailant.

From her extended arm came a burst of burning hot nothing, a hissing snake bite of pepper that blinded him and made his blindness scream psychedelic to him. He roared and bicycled his legs, pushing himself backwards, finally grasping the stick and staggering to a stand, shielding his face with his arm and waving the stick in front of himself. He connected with car and felt a pang of guilt rush through him. He backed off, quickly, and bolted with shut eyes through the field of cars, bumping one, then another, the second one sending up a high pitched protest to the sky. He clawed over the far hill and collapsed on his belly, creeping up to watch the cars.

The human woman was talking into her hand furiously, and then started jabbing a tiny silver key into the side of the car. She finally connected, stabbing the car and twisting the blade back and forth.

The car, as is their fashion, swung open it’s mouth and swallowed her whole.

He rubbed his burning eyes and tried to sniff back the river of snot pouring out of a hole in his face. At least the cars disliked humans as much as he did.

The cars eyes flashed, and it hummed alive and crawled backwards, taking the woman away to digest, and the now screaming child in it’s belly somewhere to birth. He watched the car roll away to wherever they all went when they went, and then grabbed his stick and took to running. When one human started screaming at him, usually more would come. They would usually start screaming too.

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The boy surveyed his work. Three years of his thirteen crafting, bending, filing, sawing and polishing and the results lay before him like a sleeping dragon. Almost every corner of his father's library was filled with pipes, pistons, bellows and wires - grapevines and tendrils in a forgotten greenhouse. It was New Year's Eve, 1916 - 1917 would see the first successful Transmission.

Acidic smoke belched from a side-vent as the boy turned handles and frantically pumped footpedals. Some type of grit poured from an opening and was directed out of a window with funnels. An array of greasy bulbs slowly came to life as a low rumble emanated from deep in the belly of the machine. The boy wiped his forehead on his jacket sleeve and retrieved a series of punch cards from a nearby table. Leafing through them, his face lit up as his gaze alighted on one particular cardboard sheet. This was it, he thought - the Initial Transmission.

He had no doubts whatsoever that the machine would do what it was designed to do. The boy considered himself a vessel, an instrument just as the recipients of the Transmissions were also vessels. The only difference was, of course, that the mucky-faced child stood in the shadow of the machine knew his role already.

It was nearly time. The boy didn't research the recipients personally, rather they were supplied to him by the same agency that gave him the blueprints for the machine. The understanding was that if the Initial Transmission was a success, he could choose the next set of recipients himself. Frequently the boy had mused that in the coming years he could perhaps refine the apparatus and reduce it's size somewhat, even relegate it to an outbuilding so his father could reach his Encyclopedias again. Perhaps create living quarters within the vast apparatus if the heat and noise didn't make that proposition too risky.

The boy traced his finger across the rough-hewn holes in the punchcard and read the hand-written title at the top. 'Without' was all it said. Of course the boy couldn't decypher the card itself, and even when the machine had devoured and processed it the likelihood of him being able to comprehend the resulting diagnostic data was slim at best - but he would know for sure that it had worked, and the last three years of his life, three years of night-long knuckle-scraping hard work, would not have been in vain.

Three of the five bulbs were now illuminated and the low rumble had become a dense roar. The machine was ready for input, the autistic child - forgotten and left to his own devices, had built a mechanism by which art could be transmitted across time. He inserted the punch card and lungs still, pulled the lever.

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I was never the biker type. I never imagined I would even sit on a motorcycle, let alone be inclined to ride one. I wasn’t much bothered by cars, either; A to B and all that. If it was cheap, reliable and comfortable, that was enough for me. It was only because I was accepted onto a university course 10 days before it started, and there was no public transport to speak of, that I need to get myself mobile. I knew it was impossible to learn how to drive and pass a test in that time, and my brother suggested a “125” (a small-engined motorbike with a top speed of 60-80 mph, if you don’t know much about bikes). There’s no need for a test, you just do your Compulsory Basic Training; four hours’ instruction, without running anyone over or falling off too much, and you’re away. I wasn’t exactly keen on the idea; on a bike you have no protection from the weather, other vehicles, or the tarmac. But I had no choice.

My CBT instructor was a man called Steve. Steve spent the day smoking and making misogynist jokes, but did manage the minor miracle of making me borderline competent by the end of the day. Being a student I was inevitably broke, and was hunting for used bargains, when I stumbled across a cheap Chinese import by the name of Huoniao, a 125cc cruiser for £550, new, I snapped it up. I picked it up from a warehouse on the beach and carried it home in the back of my brother’s VW Golf, with about 40% of the bike sticking out of the boot.

It was a pig to ride. It looked nice enough, with classic styling and lots of chrome-effect parts, even the sound of the engine belied its pedigree. But performance was poor. It did 0-60 in about a week, and I am struggling to find the words to describe how shockingly awful the handling was. Part of the problem was the weight balance; I came off a number of times when turning at low speed, simply because the bike couldn’t hold itself up. Whenever there was more than a mild breeze, it felt like I was sitting atop a unicycle, on a tightrope, amidst an apocalyptic thunderstorm. I’m only talking about 25pmh winds here. It was impossible to feel safe, even cruising on straights. I lost count of the number of times I had to stop because I felt I was beginning to lose control.

I also discovered why it was so cheap. The mudguard fell off after 1,200 miles. The electric start button failed after 1,500. Rust began to appear wherever there was metal. Part of the rear subframe snapped under braking after 4,000 miles (my dad had to weld on a replacement as by this time, 6 months later, the supplier had mysteriously disappeared).

Despite all of that, I loved it. It looked far cooler than any of the bangers that my friends were driving and riding, and I gained an unexpected respect from the older boys at the school where I was training to become a teacher. But it was much more than that. The sense of freedom, adventure and closeness to the road was lovely, and unexpected. From being a reluctant commuter, I quickly realised that I would need to take my test and buy a proper bike.

My test instructor was, oddly enough, also named Steve, but his jokes were more tasteful and his vice was to be found at the burger van we stopped at each day. I rode a Yamaha Diversion 400, which gave me terrible leg cramps throughout the three days’ training; imagine riding for six hours in the foetal position and you’ll have a decent idea of what I mean. I liked Steve, and I trusted him; so I bought a bike he had for sale, a 1998 Suzuki GS500. I knew nothing about the bike, but he let me test ride it and it was so comfortable, so easy to manoeuvre and control, that I went for it.

If anyone’s still reading, this is what I’m building up to. After a few weeks of tentatively exploring the new power at my control, I fell in love with this bike. It’s difficult to explain in a meaningful way to non-riders what I mean, but I’ll try. Driving a car is a functional experience. Even with performance cars that I’ve driven, even when they’re driven aggressively, they offer a sterile experience. You are securely strapped into a big metal box, protected from the elements and separated from the road by a ton of metal and mechanics. Even before you get on a bike, you are confronted with the realisation that if the tiniest thing goes wrong at the wrong moment, you can end up maimed or worse. Even low-speed accidents can be fatal on a bike; imagine hitting something at 70mph, and becoming separated from your vehicle.

Riding a bike is about experiencing your journey, not just being a passenger on it. You live the undulating, twisting curves, feel and respond to every bump and imperfection in the road. You feel the wind, and adjust yourself to sit in harmony with it. You feel the power of the engine sitting between your legs, and you respect that power severely because it can kill you. It is no exaggeration to call it a spiritual experience. There is CD player on a bike, no In Car Entertainment; you can’t talk on the phone and you can’t talk to your passenger. There is only you, and the road. Especially on long journeys, you are left alone with only your thoughts, and I found it disturbing at first; how often do you spend hours simply THINKING? I find it immensely calming. It’s also deadly serious; that thinking time necessarily includes contemplation of mortality and self-control. You cannot make mistakes on a motorcycle and survive. How many times, driving a car, have you hit a kerb, found yourself going round a corner too fast and had to brake and turn sharply, found your eyelids heavy on the motorway, left too little stopping distance, not looked before leaving a junction or changing lanes? Any of these small lapses are lethal to a rider. You develop discipline, or you crash.

I love that riders nod to each other. It’s not a macho club, men smugly acknowledging each other’s masculinity (I’m sure it is for some). It’s a recognition that this person, too, has discovered a pleasure in life unknown to others; recognition that this person is likely a much more aware and responsible road user than most drivers. It’s almost as if to say, ‘Brilliant, isn’t it?’

And it is. I love motorcycling because it combines the mundane functionality of travel with raw pleasure and simple joy. I always look forward to my journeys, and every one is an adventure, even if the route is the same. How many car drivers can say that?

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The most assurance he had ever received that he was on the right path was purely accidental. When she fell on his knife, and when the smile came across her face, he had not realized it was a spasm.

He watched her face as the glare of life faded from her eyes. He smiled with her and kissed her lips. They felt cold. And they smiled back at him, the imprint of his kiss still on them.

He made love to her after her heart stopped beating. It was exquisite-- no judgment, no complaints. He was neither too rough nor too soft, and she opened up for him easily. When he had finished, he lay beside her, caressing her breasts.

He wondered what it would be like if she made love to him. Would he be as cold? Would he be immediately hard for her if she came to him, as he did to her?

He laid by her side, waiting. And waiting.

After a few hours, he decided that he mustn't be attractive enough for her. He pouted, marched off and lifted weights for a few hours, finally coming back to bed when his muscles throbbed in pain. He looked at her, unable to move. He wondered whether or not he would have the energy to perform if she jumped on him now. But still, she stared at him with those lifeless, beautiful eyes.

He ran his fingers through her hair. She was once so... energetic, and now all she could do was stare at him with those cursed, co-dependent eyes.

It was so frustrating.

He fell asleep, dreaming of her clinging to him. She was suffocating him, and he could not bare it. When he woke, she was there, her breasts taunting him. He couldn't take it, his desire was too extreme, and he made love to her what he promised himself was one last time.

Leaving for work, he felt invigorated. He had closed the book, had told her he was leaving and did not want her in his bed when he came home. Being able to say those words to her was the ultimate freedom, he believed. No longer did he have to feel insignificant, less than a man, unable to please her. No longer did he feel that her approval had waned since that one smile she had given him, and that no matter how hard he fought she would never approve of anything he did.

But when he came home, she was still there, in his bed.

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As he hid behind the debris, he took the moment to let all the emotions wash over him. They had been hidden for so long that they came stubbornly; what is hidden is not revealed easily. The death, the destruction, the betrayal... he rose it to his throat, and in a choked, silent, violent sob, it came out and he began to purge everything that he had kept inside.

He could not be heard. And so as everything came out, it was hidden still. He had no voice, no means of expression, only mental images that came unannounced. There were horrible ones, indeed-- visions of flesh torn, screaming children... but most horrifying of all were the visions of happiness. Horror came and went, and he was happy to leave it behind. But along with the horror, each moment of happiness that he once had was left behind him, to never be touched again.

Every love letter she had ever snuck into his pocket, every smile she had ever passed onto him, these thoughts brought more violence to him than the knowledge that everything was gone... if memory was destroyed as well, he could be content, blissful; the exhilaration of this violent new world would almost serve as entertainment.

The others had almost seen him cry. Sandra had asked him if he was married or had a girlfriend; he had answered with a smile that covered his true response. "Once." The silence after the response was filled with memories; for a moment, Sandra's brown hair was blond, her blue eyes green. And he found that he could still remember a face that had once greeted him on a daily basis.

Fuck, he thought to himself. Not now.

He had managed to sneak away from the camp to cry.

The new world was welcoming after his wife left. The loud growls in the darkness, the creatures that all seemed to crave human flesh or at least human misery... they all served to numb the pain. It was in idle moments such as these that everything came back, happiness as bitter as the sharpest blade, cutting and scratching. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, and that he hated her. He wanted to make love to her and bash her head against the rock he hid behind. He wondered if she was still alive and secretly hoped that he would never meet her again.

His sobs almost became vocal. He took the knife from his pocket and before even thinking about it took a quick slice out of his arm. The pain knocked him even lower, but it was something he could focus on.

It was ironic that after hell seemed to have belched out the most hideous of monsters, it was a woman that had truly weakened him. He had clawed out the eyes of great and terrible beings, was dragged by sharp claws of winged things and dropped from great heights, but it was the images of happiness, cursed memories that came accidentally, that was beginning to break him.

He wondered what it would feel like to just give up. Though pain came naturally, he could not kill himself, but what if he just simply refused to fight anymore? Fed the beast instead of fight it?

He knew the answer to that. Only idle hands can contemplate such things.

There was a roar that sounded close to camp. He wiped his eyes, slipped his sleeve over the fresh wound on an already scarred arm, and prepared for another fight.

The last idle thought he allowed himself was to wonder how many scars on his body were accidental, and how many were given so that he could wake up to life, or to punish himself for failing.

One last roar, and the knowledge that he was partly responsible for more lives than his own, and everything was buried, forgotten, a scar to return to only when one had time to look.

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