prose in form

    The TV studio set is made of that sugary, clay-like substance you see on reality TV baking shows. Is it fondant? Is it cake? The stuff that makes "cake" look unlike anything edible in the name of aesthetics, and for the sake of judges with dubious credibility.
    The talk show host is composed primarily of paper mache and elmers glue. A fragile constitution indeed. Every once in a while one of her limbs falls off, and studio assistants rush in to make a quick repair. They move as ants at a pitstop, uniform and businesslike. An abrupt commercial break would simultaneously ensue. Such incidents are, frankly, rampant.
    The host smells like what must be flowers, or is it some cream-filled pastry? She smiles. In fact, she can express little else. Such is the nature of paper mache. A subdermally embedded smartphone bulges from one thigh, disrupting the otherwise buttery smooth, auto-constricting pants. Tightly bound shoes rest on the soft fondant carpeting. LED lights around the outside of the shoes blink intermittently. The strings attached to her shoulders, hands, and knees stretch up; out from the sight of the plastic studio audience.
    The audience sits on a wooden, micro-stadium apparatus. They unleash canned laughter on command. On today's show, the laughter is undeniably fierce. The term "gale-force" comes to mind. As the paper mache host jabbers inaudibly, the cuing screen above the audience signals compulsory mirth. The audience's plastic laughter shoots into the host's pasty ears. Our dear host tries to brace herself, but can do nothing as the peals of vacuum-sealed guffaws pelt her face, removing her head. It lands softly on the fondant carpeting.
    We'll be back after these messages.
    On glazed screens nationwide, an advertisement for a most unique pair of shoes appears. Smart Shoes®. A voice made of molasses vocal chords and a taffy tongue pour over the ad's muzak'd soundscape.
    "Introducing the latest wearable miracle: Smart Shoes®!"
    A pause.
    "No socks are required!" The narrator boasts.
    The narrator refrains to mention some important information. Thanks to advances in biometrics collection, the ad sponsor almost certainly possesses the viewer's precise feet measurements. Using these as a foundation, an onshore designer can create a Personalization Template™. Machine learning algorithms can then adapt any template to create "A completely unique shoe for every user!" A specialized offshore factory can then fabricate Smart Shoes en masse. The narrator proudly emphasizes the sophisticated technology responsible for such feats before it continues.
    "Once you put on Smart Shoes®, they're yours for life!"
    What's left unsaid? There is no way to remove these Smart Shoes...unless, of course, the user's feet are removed as well.
    A paper-mache subject materializes within the ad, already encased in his Smart Shoes. He smiles in broad bland cheer, and demonstrates the wonderful features of these new sneakers.
    The shoes...seem to walk of their own accord.
    The narrator laments in sweetly rehearsed sympathy, "People often don't know what to do...! Or where to go...!" We can almost hear the voice collapse into a pout.
    The voice's bubblegum lips turn into a wide smile. "Smart Shoes® not only remove the stress of choosing which shoes to wear, but also where to go and when to be there! All thanks to the Internet of Things!"
   According to the sponsor's patent filings, the shoes assume such personal decisions in tandem with the subject's smartphone, without which the shoes cannot function. A demonstration commences. The advertisement's subject stands motionless, as his phone battery has died. It is at this point a muffled, mechanical call of "I__require__assistance__" emanates from the speakers in the shoes' soles. This is a critical safety feature that the narrator highlights with smug pride.
    "State of the art! We care about your physical safety!"
    Thanks to the countless chunks of personal information ripped and bitten from the ripe bodies and brains of countless users worldwide, a cloud-based hive of ad-driven decision algorithms can draw personalized conclusions, and bring the subject to the optimal place at the optimal time... Who defines "optimal"? Anonymous swarms of bots bid in a calculated frenzy to determine the precise place and time.
    "With Smart Shoes®, even the decision of whom to meet could be blessedly removed!" the saccharine narrator crows.
    The sponsor harvests such raw behavioral power from birthdays, past purchases, and (fundamentally) internet search history. "All of this and so much more are now possible thanks to this modern wearable marvel!"
    The narrator commands the viewer to "¡SCAN THE QR CODE NOW!" and "purchase" the shoes in the form of lifetime monthly payments. Some viewers are surprised that the narrator even specifies such a payment scheme, as this has become a de facto standard.
    In fine print at the bottom of the ad, we see that upon death, Smart Shoes remain property of the distributor; even as they cling to the customer's corpse. We can only imagine the ghoulish tasks the shoe corporations's gig workers engage in as they mobilize to recover some of the more valuable components laying within the customer's grave. Such is the scarcity of micro-electronic supplies these days.
    The advertisement dissolves from thousands of sugar-coated screens nationwide.
    As we return to the TV studio, we hear a gelatinous, AI-generated voice announce, "We are baa-aaack, legumes and jelly-spoons!" It sweetly addresses the vigorously applauding studio audience and viewers like you.
    Shortly after her head has been reattached, the paper mache host exclaims, "Well, don't those Smart Shoes® look marvelous?!" The host nods her crafted head and painted smile.
    "I've already got mine on, at a reduced monthly lifetime rate courtesy of this generous program and their common ownership! I couldn't get here or anywhere else without them! Heheh! HAHAH!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA" The host's voice turns from heaving chuckles into breathless mirth that approaches hyperventilation.
    The strings attached to her limbs go to work, and give the impression that the host has composed herself.
    "Now, for today's topics. Number one: do french fries cause...DEPRESSION?!"
    The audience gasps in consumed horror.
    A gigantic, porcelain man with all the personality of a bowling ball cries out from the back, "Surely not!"
    Nearby wheelbarrow attendants steel themselves, ready to catch any suddenly detached limbs. a battery of commercials remains on standby, locked and loaded.
    "Shocking, I know! such is the finding of a new, ahem, study." The host struggles to speak as she chokes on a bit of glue used in her recapitation.
    "I can think of a different feeling that i associate with french friiiies...!" The host draws this out, watching a digital clock count down to the next planned commercial break. The audience, unblinking, leans forward with keen interest. Plastic torsos squeak in orchestrated unison. their futures seem to depend on hearing the next word:
    "EUPHORIAAAA!!" The host ejaculates, head tilted back, eyes turned manically upwards to the strings above her head. Saliva glistens over dented lips. Hands quiver at the end of their lines. Her feet shake in their permanently personalized shoes.
   The crowd screams in assent, shaking the toothpicks that compose their seating. The porcelain man weeps fervently, wishing he could dip french fries into his own salted tears. What a waste these tears are otherwise! He sobs even more deeply at this thought.
    The host's smile broadens, threatening to cleave her own pulped face in two. She channels the overrunning glee into a smacking cackle.
    "Yes! Yes, people! I'm glad you're with me! I'm sure those of you at home can relate, too!"
    As she addresses the unseen housebound audience, the camera zooms in on her slowly nodding face. Her caked eyes remain unblinking. Her strained smile is still wide, though the studio assistants sigh in relief as the grin no longer threatens the constitution of her skull. As they know all too well, cleaved heads are much stickier business than fallen ones.
    The camera deftly zooms out to capture the still screaming audience and nodding host. She fills slowly with dread, as she notices there's still more than a minute until the next planned commercial break. She considers removing her own head, but her string-bound hands answer to another master.
    As her fear deepens, the host glances desperately from the lines pinned to her limbs to the lines that appear in sequence on the teleprompter. The words indicate that it's time for a ready-made, personalized story. Her fear dissipates somewhat into dull, cardboard nerves. She finds hollow comfort in these familiar, saran-wrapped anecdotes.
    After clearing her gummed throat, she begins.
    "Ahem. these shoes, I gotta tell ya: what a blessing! If it weren't for them, I would've never met my husband! And with his own personalized shoes, he would've never met me, of course. We were so compatible, I thought we might be related! HA-HA-HA-HA." She laughs in a digitized cadence that unseen nerves have clipped. The plastic audience looks through one other's transparent frames and joins in synthetic laughter.
    She continues.
    "He and I were made just the same way. And with these smart shoes, well, every decision we've ever had in our lives really did bring us to one another! I mean, we didn't even have a choice! That's fate, right?!" She exhales sharply thru where the holes for her nose are. The audience, amused, rumbles excitedly in rote agreement, responding to the cuing screen above them.
    At this point, the host's shoes have sunken slightly into the soft, sugary studio carpeting, laden as they are with lithium ion batteries and other micro electronics. These shoes...begin to move.
    The host's eyes betray mild alarm.
    "Excuse me--us. I--we seem to be going now!" The strings force the host to stand, and the shoes begin a haphazard shuffle across the studio floor. Bits of the fondant carpeting cling to the uniquely personalized soles. The studio attendants dutifully stand by, awaiting the signal to patch and smooth over the bespoke desserted carpeting.
    Unknown to all except for the clouded algorithm that has delivered its decision through the host's smartphone and into "her" shoes, this is the optimal--in fact, critical--time for a coffee break. The host's smartphone biometrics monitoring has triggered an alert to signal that if she does not ingest coffee before the next commercial break, her glazed glass heart will stop its crunched pumping.
    This coffee break was a calculated decision: if another host collapsed dead on live TV, viewership would certainly increase, but it's harder than ever to find willing replacements. The studio executives have also expressed embarrassment during their muted conversations in VIP sports stadium boxes: many online tabloid feeds mock this show, saying it's become a one-trick pony. Thus a logical consensus: break to an advertisement rather than broadcast yet another casualty.
    Ultimately, more ad breaks simply mean the executives can continue to stuff their ever-expanding pockets with the cold hard cash that overflows from the overstuffed pockets of their peers. Such thoughts comfort the rotund, nacho-filled executives as they slurp cocktails and decry the performance of the athletic teams they claim to own.
    These gluttonous dynamics remain invisible to the plastic studio audience, as they watch the paper mache host continue to stumble towards caffeinated salvation. The porcelain man stuffs fistfuls of popcorn into his munching mouth, watching in glazed rapture.
    This is a familiar routine for the entire studio team, who have already sprung into action. They've prepared a styrofoam cup, steaming with a ready-made brew that threatens to melt through the chocolated table it rests on. They've already reloaded the next commercial: a subdermal battery implant to keep that smartphone charged longer, so those uniquely personalized shoes can continue to take you where you need to go next. A nearby plastic surgeon is available now. They could graft such implants onto one or both butt cheeks, for instance.
    Order now for a discounted lifetime monthly installment plan! Consider an additional lifelong recurring purchase for grave-robber insurance! Avoid semi-regular embarrassment!
	Or, as in the case of our dear host:
stave off existential peril.

    Wooden hands twist a mechanism attached to my back. The mechanism breaks off and clatters to the ground, its purpose fulfilled. I feel no pain as internalized gears begin their prescribed work.
    Cotton gloves shove me into the blinding brightness of a room universal in its flat expanse. The hostile light seems to beam widely from above, but the colorless surface that surrounds me reflects a glare so fierce that it's hard to tell. The shining floor could be marble if it weren't so unnatural. It stretches to broad infinity in front of me. Despite the floor's polish, i cannot glimpse any part of my reflection.
    As if on command, my foot takes a step. Tightly bound shoes slip on the glossed floor. Tortured squeaks struggle to be heard in an overwhelmingly mute soundscape. My arms flail wildly as i try to balance on the iceless rink.
    Could i hope that any dignified future could exist in such a desolate, wasted space?
    My eyes slowly adjust to the brightness... I spy a desaturated smudge on the straight-edge horizon. I move in a haphazard shuffle; skidding, drifting, sliding towards the fuzzed smudge. Though i haven't exactly fallen down, it's all i can do to stay on my feet. My arms continue to flail desperately. They stutter through desynchronized clockwise loops, paddling my body forward.
    Before long, i'm sweating under the fluorescent sun. Perspiration drips in globbed coins from my skull. They fall to the floor in noiseless splashes. The floor becomes unthinkably slick in the sweat; gaining any purchase seems impossible. Sheer frantic momentum carries me towards the distant smudge. It grows larger over the course of what feels like weeks...
	My mind slowly recedes...Eyelids blink sleeplessly...Time is distributed into vast, uniform rows of sludgy, molasses-filled vats...Cottoned silence reigns in stifling supremacy.
    As i finally approach, the smudge gradually morphs into a patch of carpet on the flawless floor. Starkly cut, perfectly square carpet. An utterly white wall close behind the carpeted island becomes distinguishable. The wall could be composed of rock-hard plastic. A rectangular shelf is set high up on the wall, above the carpet. I feel a nascent invigoration at the prospect of stability; near tears at the thought of a moment's rest for my sweat-drenched skull, windmill arms, and aching legs.
    I suddenly collapse to brittle knees, my face swings down toward the hard gloss. My nose collides into the scentless surface with a matter-of-fact thud. Despite the fall, the complete lack of friction yields my body forward.
	Simple inertia.
	A depraved tongue slips from my mouth into an extended drifting lick that tastes nothing as it rubs a distilled, glasslike smoothness. It feels good, i think. My body sails ahead into the carpeted shoreline; a relieving berth.
   After my face kisses the carpet, i stay there; forehead pressed to manufactured ridges. I slowly extend my hands across the carpet's surface. I feel the thinly piled rough factory weave under my fingertips. It stays firmly in place on the eternally glossed floor. It seems to be the only source of stability in existence.
    An unseen force compels me to stand. I feel my hands against the harsh, carpeted beach. My hands push me up to feeble knees, then to swollen, quaking feet. I'm subtly aware of the transparent strings that emerge from my worn limbs. They climb upward, beyond. It's impossible to see where they go: the artificial glare is simply too bright. I'm on the verge of another collapse, but these strings--they won't let me fall.
    I look ahead to the textureless white wall. Its unmoving serpentine smoothness disturbs what's left of my flayed nerves. I see pairs of parallel markings that look like they used to anchor something. The markings jump up the wall in a strict, unified cadence. A string pinned to my chin lifts my gaze up the wall. The parallel markings lead to the edges of the rectangular shelf, high above. Someone has moved this shelf up the wall--again...and again...and again...
    My eyes strain against the brightness as i gaze up. A soft golden gleam blooms from the shelf. The gleam’s quiet strength overpowers the obstinate ceiling glare. Aside from the carpet beneath my feet, this warm gleam is the only thing in this cursed expanse that resembles hope. Could i have really seen it? Precious, life-giving sunshine? I have no choice. I simply must reach that shelf, though it's far too high.
    I drape an elbow over my forehead to shield my eyes against the oppressive fluorescent glare. I stretch the hand attached to my other arm straight above my head, toward the unseen ceiling. I clench my shriveled butt cheeks in a cracked grimace. My shoulders strain without any aid from the strings. To my astonishment, the shelf and golden glow begin to come closer. Yet i still feel my feet firmly planted on the manufactured carpet. I seem to be growing? Towards my goal? A meager smile emerges. This must be what Progress feels like.
	The silence, stretched like taffy in huge mechanical claws, finally breaks......
    Clack. Clack.
	Behind me, i hear the faint, unmistakable sound of dress shoes on the vast, polished floor.
    Clack. Clack.
    Clack. Clack.
    Each step is like a drop of water that freezes instantly as it contacts a subzero tundran icescape. The cadence is calculated, methodical. There is no variation in the coldly deliberate footsteps. They approach as a murderous metronome. What sort of creature could walk so effortlessly and with such purpose across that grimly glossed floor?
    Clack. Clack.
    The shoes' vibrations pass through the carpet, into my feet, transmitting an unholy dread that spreads up my withered body until fear has enveloped my skull. The tiny amount of agency i did possess has vanished. I'm unable to reach any farther, frozen with a hand still outstretched. I think of that statue of Liberty from the world i once knew. I stare in constricted longing at the golden gleam that sits just out of reach.
   The footsteps cease. I hear a slow, wooden creak, as sinister joints bend. Meanwhile, i become abruptly unhinged-- The carpet shoots away from under my feet. My being shrinks instantly, and the golden gleam on the shelf falls away. Time becomes frozen water shot thru a tube.
    The back of my skull slams into the ground. My spine crashes, flattening against the iceless floor. I can barely feel my feet.
   Clack....Clack.
   The footsteps resume at a slowed pace, finely measured. Each step rattles my eardrums as the shoes position themselves beside my motionless body. The first smell in an eternity creeps into my unused nostrils. My head turns to see the crisp business shoes pointed towards my shoulder. They are as flawlessly polished as the floor. I see a blurred reflection of what must be my face in a shoe's bulbous toetip.
    Without consent, my gaze is drawn up the figure's handmade designer suit. Its pants are a multicolored cotton patchwork of diverse shapes and sizes. They reek of rotten excrement and vomit. Its belt is made of paper that has decayed for centuries, barely supporting the cursed, makeshift pants. Its collared shirt is drenched in darkly thick oil, and bears a fleshy, hot-dog necktie. The necktie is brutally truncated. Its own teeth might have taken a bite out of it.
    The looming figure was perhaps once a man, or at least a boy. Though it does not breathe, i detect some imitation of life. In one gloved fist it holds the carpet, my dear sanctuary. The carpet dangles, poorly concealed behind its back.
	It bends slowly at the waist, and i hear the sinister wooden creak once again. The first bit of darkness washes over me as the rigid silhouette leans forward, casting a shadow over my face. Its other hand extends down, reaching towards my motionless self; its cotton glove open and barely distinguishable from the colorless surroundings.
    The cufflinks on its navy blue, star-spangled blazer are spotless, razor-sharp talons. I realize that this wooden hand in the outstretched glove means to bring me to my feet.
    My eyes suddenly flash upward to behold the inhuman visage. A mechanical grin is fixed on the figure's leering face. Its teeth grip an unsmoked cigarette. A fresh coat of paint glosses over a trail of tears. Its eyes are vacuums, sucking my gaze into the dueling voids.
    I try to resist the string that tugs at my hand, but i can do nothing as my limp arm lifts into the air. I watch my hand reach towards the cotton glove. The figure's gaze intensifies in hollow pleasure. Its unblinking eyes burn in fiery conquest. Saliva slips from the lipless, toothed mouth. The glove closes over my entire hand in a tightening squeeze, firm and impersonal.
    This grip is all I feel, until the strings start to pull at my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. A childhood song echoes thinly in my vacuous skull, looping onto itself incoherently. The arm attached to the gloved hand does nothing to lift me as my ascent commences:

	what were once my own limbs
	raise in muted concert,
	accordion to another's whims.
	
    As the strings bring my body ever higher, the gloved hand reluctantly relinquishes its grip. I continue to slowly rise into the canned air, spinning gently. I feel my self relax into a bland stupor. Everything looks the same while upside-down. Floor? Ceiling? What's the difference in a fabricated room in which everything is composed of interchangeable components?
    The sunny golden glow pans in and out of focus...Then it grows steadily brighter once more. Artificial warmth fills within me. A bespoke calm spreads over the surface of my skin, petrifying it into processed lumber. I slowly stop turning, until my body becomes still. Only the glow occupies my vision. My eyelids are fused open to the tops of their sockets. Retinas become eclipsed. I watch in captive wonder as the gleam transforms from sunshine's golden rays into synthetic green ribbons. This ribboned multitude bursts out of a columned core into a digital corona; irradiating, eradicating. This hazy green abomination of light completely obscures my vision. I'm hypnotized into a shrink-wrapped dream. These leaden eyelids finally close. The corners of my mouth pull into an easy, terminal smile...

	.  .  .  .  .  .  .


	...as i drift...
	...in an effortless, gilded flight...
	...on this ribboned river of twisted rays...
	...through a starless outer space...
	
	...i realize that...
	it found me,
	it tricked me...
	
	...and without it,
	I could never have reached this...
	deliverance.