Current Transmissions:


Of Totems


The black fly zipped along through the air, amongst the darkness and on instinct. It was attracted to the scent of sweat. It found its target, a man sitting cross-legged on a mat in the center of a studio apartment.

Max sat in a lotus position in the apartment, covered in sweat. He was meditating. Incense burned somewhere, its aroma flooding the room with a honeysuckle fragrance. It had been a rough few months and he was glad to find a place to rest for a while and gather his thoughts.


Black flies buzzed about him, landing on him, crawling about his body. Max didn't mind it; it was all part of the zen. His eyes were closed but he was sitting there field-stripping several weapons that were scattered about him, his hands automatically flowing to the parts he needed to complete the guns.


For the past few years he had felt like he was on the window-sill of life, looking out on something that was unique. Though his perspective was somehow tainted with cloudy visions of what was or was not going to happen. He just needed this time to think. He needed time just for himself, to converse with the center vision.

The last of the weapons was assembled, and they laid out before him in a single line, arranged by size, with Joy and Pain book-ending the rest. He opened his eyes, and saw several flies crawling about him. The hairs on his body acted like a sensor, and it picked up their pattern tenfold. Max let out a long sigh and smiled.