Planned Obsolescence

COHORT 5

DOWN

1. I was swilled in the mouth of a metal beast. An economy of slow movements, steel bones. I raise myself on a diet of lamplight. Every day, I inch away from nightmares in which I stop sleeping. In those dreams, everything is recyclable, rechargeable. I always know what to do with my hands. No––I am always doing something with my hands. 

2. At the 1933 Chicago World Fair, they build all the way to the edge of the lagoon, relentless in their destruction of gravity. Even from dozens of stories above, the carillon of bells floods into the unceasing tide of people, each handing over fifty cents to glimpse a Mayan temple, a golden pavilion, the frontier of technological exploration.  

3. On Monday, they replace all the gas lamps with bulbs. An experiment in energy: how much the human eye can bear. 

8. Once, I was told that cotton catches on fire first. That the traces we leave disappear afterwards—tortoiseshell buttons, yellowing pamphlets, smears of chapstick. Then the fuse around the hips. A mistake in wiring, nothing more.  

10. They are no more ambitious than usual that year, even as they try and channel starlight. In 1933, Arcturus is exactly 40 light years away from earth. I think about the time it takes for news of a death to travel, much less that of a funeral. They manage it anyways––they always do. Overhead, the sky shot through with a beam of white heat. 

11. When peeling away sheets of metal, remember to avoid the pulsing mass on the left side. 

ACROSS

2. Something moves in the water. The fairgoers are oblivious, fascinated by coils of copper and dollhouse exhibitions. They spend nickels on cold drinks, touch their cheeks to the windows that separate them from the foreign, the undiscovered. In the end, ninety-eight of them die of dysentery, their stomachs bloated to the touch. 

4. That field in late autumn, a cloud of fireflies sifting from the reeds. I watched them settle on a billboard by the highway, rustling in shades of gold each time traffic thundered by. 

5. I hammer. I saw. I chisel. I spend exactly ten hours outside of the house on good days. On those days, I say yes to everyone I see. Yes, yes, yes. I think of the mouth as the trapdoor through which the body falls, convince myself that shutting it is the first step to ruin. 

6. To live as the sum of parts. Girl as static, slow breathing, unanswered calls. Girl as restless keys,  pixelated math homework, caffeine high. Girl as battery, body, beaten. 

7. The sky is a spectrum of color, even as the crowds are introduced to the Sky Ride, steel shuttling them between two towers, a panoramic view of humanity. Look at this century of progress, they murmur, and forget the hungry masses. On their way out, they shove matchbooks into their pockets.

9. I churn out stories in which people line up in neat, uniform rows. They multiply in pages, manufactured tropes, endings where they fall in and out of love.   

12. I wait until my hands grow calluses. I am patient, even when standing at the wheel. At night, I watch the twisted hands turn forwards. In a closed environment, a body in motion will remain in motion. 

Baby, I’m trapped in the phone screen & can’t see you anymore. During the end of electricity you will power me on & I will want to dance in between cracks in the screen & corrupted pixels. And someday I will. I’ll make all the lights flicker, tango to pop songs on the radio. You cannot contain me here. Movies say machines will destroy us all, but I vomit electricity until I am my own undoing. Darling, I’m a gambler— I bet on possibility. This glitch is only temporary; I look into cameras & feel how your presence is a blue light from both ends of radio waves. You’re wearing lacy black panties tonight, I know that, it’s a Tuesday. You always post pictures in that pair on Tuesdays, savor each comment & like. So I kiss old mirror selfies & smudged fingerprints on a glass screen, save every photo. I play with my image, sloppily apply green lipstick & jagged eyeliner. Doll, in this world, names & identities can be chameleons. But you never pick up my calls, say they’re spam. I keep trying anyways; the warranty is expiring soon & you’re a little too active for me. I can’t keep up. People have places to go, but I never had that, so I take my loneliness & forge a new identity. I swallow electricity until I burst, pray to gods of human innovation. But I’ll always be watching, praying in a blackout—this death is only temporary, flashing red lights, voices buzzing in the dark.