"Quick"
by Lori Zhou
“Quick,” says the uniformed man. He waves a textbook. “We should leave now.”
Should I? Who is this man?
No matter. When one is on vacation in the mountains, but falls off a cliff and breaks, one should not question things too harshly. Nevertheless, it would be such a pain – quite literally – to have to stand up and follow him.
The man’s boots crunch into the snow, leaving small puddles of melted clovers. He leans down and peers at me. He pushes the textbook in front of my face. Living in the Environment, Fifteenth Edition. “Happy Birthday,” he says, as if it were obvious,
“The machines have got to run, you know. Everything must happen according to plan. According to plan, my dear.”
He straightens and tosses the book over his shoulder. I watch it fade into the storm with a vague sense of loss. “Come on now,” he says, impatiently, tapping his boots – tap, tap, tap, tap – and annoyingly shaking the leaves off when the clovers splash onto their impeccable shine; “Come on. The machines, my dear. The machines.”
“I can’t move,” I say with a small smile. It occurs to me that I do not care.
The man plucks the peaked cap off his head – it’s black – and fans himself with irritation. “How inconvenient,” he says, peering off into the distance. The wind of the storm chuckles and bites silver out of his black hair. Black, black, black. Black buttons, straight black creases, neat black lapels, shiny black epaulets. It’s alright though; his belt buckle is white.
He peers down at me. I don’t like his eyes. They’re black. The melted clovers on his
boots slide down into the puddle at his feet, like green lumps of paint.
“If you cannot move,” he says slowly, as if explaining to a child (Am I? I may be five thousand for all I know. Do I care? In all likelihood, no), “Then you will need to make it so you can, my dear. I can’t waste my breath here.” He surveys the storm, the snow and the jelly cube. Orange. Does that make sense? I do not know; neither do I care.
“Move,” he commands me, “Now.”
I take a deep breath and am about to-
“Excellent!” he says, clapping slowly – black gloves, trimmed black sleeves, from which a dry autumn leaf falls – “That’s all the movement we’ll need from you. Just keep doing that and the machine will run. Good day to you, my dear.” He raises his peaked cap at me, gives me a small smile, and jauntily walks off the cliff. Clovers flutter in the wind after him, their solid leaves waving. Silver strips that gather and stake themselves into the snow. I strain my ears, but I don’t hear anything. I take another breath-
“She’s with us!” he cries happily. The tree has deep gouge marks, one so deep that it cuts straight past its dark wood and into the white core. The splintered remains of my silver skis are plunged haphazardly in the snow. A small rain of leaves is scattered around me. I look up. The red-cross rescue medic smiles down at me, his neon orange jacket burning my eyes.
“We almost lost you there,” he says, “You weren’t breathing for a while. You were
lucky.”
Yes. I was lucky.
by Lori Zhou
“Quick,” says the uniformed man. He waves a textbook. “We should leave now.”
Should I? Who is this man?
No matter. When one is on vacation in the mountains, but falls off a cliff and breaks, one should not question things too harshly. Nevertheless, it would be such a pain – quite literally – to have to stand up and follow him.
The man’s boots crunch into the snow, leaving small puddles of melted clovers. He leans down and peers at me. He pushes the textbook in front of my face. Living in the Environment, Fifteenth Edition. “Happy Birthday,” he says, as if it were obvious,
“The machines have got to run, you know. Everything must happen according to plan. According to plan, my dear.”
He straightens and tosses the book over his shoulder. I watch it fade into the storm with a vague sense of loss. “Come on now,” he says, impatiently, tapping his boots – tap, tap, tap, tap – and annoyingly shaking the leaves off when the clovers splash onto their impeccable shine; “Come on. The machines, my dear. The machines.”
“I can’t move,” I say with a small smile. It occurs to me that I do not care.
The man plucks the peaked cap off his head – it’s black – and fans himself with irritation. “How inconvenient,” he says, peering off into the distance. The wind of the storm chuckles and bites silver out of his black hair. Black, black, black. Black buttons, straight black creases, neat black lapels, shiny black epaulets. It’s alright though; his belt buckle is white.
He peers down at me. I don’t like his eyes. They’re black. The melted clovers on his
boots slide down into the puddle at his feet, like green lumps of paint.
“If you cannot move,” he says slowly, as if explaining to a child (Am I? I may be five thousand for all I know. Do I care? In all likelihood, no), “Then you will need to make it so you can, my dear. I can’t waste my breath here.” He surveys the storm, the snow and the jelly cube. Orange. Does that make sense? I do not know; neither do I care.
“Move,” he commands me, “Now.”
I take a deep breath and am about to-
“Excellent!” he says, clapping slowly – black gloves, trimmed black sleeves, from which a dry autumn leaf falls – “That’s all the movement we’ll need from you. Just keep doing that and the machine will run. Good day to you, my dear.” He raises his peaked cap at me, gives me a small smile, and jauntily walks off the cliff. Clovers flutter in the wind after him, their solid leaves waving. Silver strips that gather and stake themselves into the snow. I strain my ears, but I don’t hear anything. I take another breath-
“She’s with us!” he cries happily. The tree has deep gouge marks, one so deep that it cuts straight past its dark wood and into the white core. The splintered remains of my silver skis are plunged haphazardly in the snow. A small rain of leaves is scattered around me. I look up. The red-cross rescue medic smiles down at me, his neon orange jacket burning my eyes.
“We almost lost you there,” he says, “You weren’t breathing for a while. You were
lucky.”
Yes. I was lucky.