POTENTIAL by Shannon Snider A spark. A flash. A switch is
flipped. ItŐs off, weŐre off, racing forward at the speed of light. Fast. Really
fast through the wires, the cords, the web hidden in the walls, just in front
of the 2x4Ős and right behind the drywall. Up the side, hidden but gaining speed.
Energy. Potential energy. Potential. Faster, closer, faster, closer to release.
Faster, quicker yet. Weaving, turning, jutting over, under and around rafters,
bracers, and side beams, a veritable new forest for trees to meet their potential.
No pauses. No stops. Faster still. Nearer, nearer. The suspense, the driving towards
the goal. The goal, the release, the met potential. So close now. Down the wall,
closer still. Just a few more feet. So close. A micro-measure of time. A release,
a climax, an apex of energy streaming through the outlet and ultimately emerging
in a sustaining, useful ÔPREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNŐ.
A hairdryer. Gusts of hot, violent wind emitting from a useful plastic device.
The gusts come out, whipping her soft brown hair against her face and neck, tossing
them up and down into a medley of locks and tresses. She flips her hair over in
one quick, violent movement. Back up again with the same ferociousness, then down.
Up. Again. Down and up, down and up. She turns off the hairdryer and noisily throws
it into the sink. With one hand she picks up her hairbrush and tries to tame her
unruly locks, while the other hand grabs a cup of coffee that has been threatening
to fall off the ledge above the sink. Caffeine, caffeine, gotta get caffeine.
Seconds later the bathroom door thrusts open before the toilette is even done
flushing. She hurries to her closet, her perfectly coiffured hair bouncing with
her hard footsteps. She fumbles. She fumbles for her shoes. Where the hell can
they be? No, those arenŐt the right ones; they hurt her feet. Searching, searching,
searching. MaybeÉ. She turns away from her closet while reaching up and yanking
on the string attached to the light bulb. She dives to her knees and thrusts her
arm under the bed. She reaches, she gropes, she strains while her hair hangs in
her face, some getting stuck in her gooey lip-gloss. Finally, ah ha! One shoe,
two shoes. Just the right blue shoes. Yes. She stands up and quickly heads for
the door. Rushing, rushing time. In a hurry. Bag. She needs her bag. Why the hell
canŐt she ever find anything? She makes a re-occurring mental note to get more
organized, but knows she wonŐt. Ah! Behind the couch. Why the hell was it there?
Keys, keys, keys. She scans the room. On the table. Shoes, bag, keys. Yes. Good
to go. Ready and set. Full of potential. She takes one last gulp of coffee with
one hand while the other turns the doorknob. First swallow, second. She hastily
goes to put the still half-full coffee cup on the previously mentioned table,
assuming her hand and body move within the space of her apartment without the
need of attention. In and instant, less than a second, amazingly quickly, it falls
slowly to the floor, plummeting, twisting in the air, turned by turbulence, spilling
the remainder of the coffee out before it ever hits the wood on the floors. Expending
all the force of its gathered energy, it shatters into hundreds of tiny, little
pieces. Pieces fanning out in all directions, each one traveling as far as its
potential will allow, first vertically, then horizontally, slowly and finally
skidding to their stop. Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Not this, too. She
doesnŐt have time for this. No time, no time! Her first impulse is to grab a towel
from the kitchen and clean up the resting disaster, but she catches herself. Why?
ItŐs done. ItŐs over with. It can do no more harm. The harm will be done in wasting
more of the precious commodity, time. She feels good about her justification as
she throws open her front door and exits, slamming it hard behind her. She leaves,
bouncing along with her hair. Stillness. Silence. Clarity. Clear, quiet, stillness.
Warm, black coffee spreading its edges, uninhibited. Flowing. Filling space, limitless
space. Liquid, seeping into every crack, every knick, every scratch. Soaking.
Sinking. Drawn downward by gravity and its own need to wet what is dry. Spreading
its boundaries down through the now seeped wood, finding its way into the unseen,
finding the underworld alone. Its weight pulling it down, expanding past its potential.
Deeper still. It finds its way to hidden, under-step wires all a-buzz with electric
potential. In the quiet, in the stillness, without any permission at all (how
dare it!), the warm coffee envelops a web of wires. A hot flash! A bright, potent
spark! An immeasurable surge of energy from such a small, insignificant and unseen
scene. Too much and not enough simultaneously. Oh horrible disaster! All is now
quiet. All is dead. The late morning sunlight visibly streams through the split
in a set of insignificant curtains. Breathing. Deep breathing breaks the utter
silence with its rhythm. Slow, deep, involuntary breathing, void of emotion or
physical stress. Somewhere deep in an unconscious state, a mind begins to naturally
arouse itself. First come the subtle notions of space and location. Then awareness
of the body. Slowly, before he even opens his eyes, he becomes aware of the stiffness
of his limbs and muscles. As his mind and body naturally move from unconsciousness
to consciousness, he rolls over in his bed. He sighs deeply. The pace of his oncoming
active mind begins to quicken. Somewhere deep in the bowels of his mind there
is a feeling of uneasiness. It grows rapidly. It begins to disturb his peacefulness.
ItŐs closer. It begins to destroy his innocence. It comes racing now, racing to
pounce upon what is left of his subconscious oblivion, which itself has faded
to nearly nothing. A black cloud, a dreadful fact, which finally revealsÉÉAlarm!
Why didnŐt the alarm go off?! His body is instantly filled with adrenaline as
he bolts out of bed with one quick movement. He accusingly snaps his head to look
at his treacherous alarm clock. Blank. Nothing. Dead. Crap! His mind is racing.
He grabs a pair of crumpled shorts that lie on the floor. He pulls them on both
of his legs with one movement. His mind is still racing. Was there a storm? How
could the electricity be out? He rationalizes. He quickly grabs the handset of
the telephone and presses the ominous blue button that activates its potential.
Nothing. What? Oh! He remembers that a cordless phone requires electricity. He
curses the complexity of convenience as he shoves his feet into a pair of well-worn
sneakers. Seconds later the front door of his apartment swings open and he emerges,
emerges carrying a bicycle hoisted up near his shoulder. He begins to descend
a series of stairs, rhythmically hopping down them as his cumbersome bicycle bangs
noisily against the walls. Upon reaching the cacophonous street below, he tosses
a leg over the bicycle and mounts it swiftly. He pedals hard, gaining momentum
and speed. He darts around the pedestrians on the sidewalk, sometimes cautiously,
sometimes not. Quickly, he rotates the handlebars to move him from sidewalk to
street traffic. He gains more speed. Tiny beads of perspiration begin to form
on his forehead as he pushes his potential. Darting. Weaving. Moving in and out
of and around a plethora of slow-moving and parked delivery trucks, taxis filled
with anxious passengers, and adventurous motorists. He is quick, an experienced
bicycler in this energized city. He moves with confidence, pushed on by his own
adrenaline meshing with the fevered excitement of the city. Faster, faster. Must
make up for lost time. He immerses himself in the confusion of the city streets,
traveling streets and alleyways known only by a few, splashing through putrid
puddles of unknown liquid along the way. His shirt begins to stick to his body
despite the cooling effects of rushing against the air. A quick right. A quick
left. Dodging bullets disguised as Volvos and little old ladies with grocery bags.
Then, immersed, lost, swallowed by the energy of the city. The streets talk. They
scream. They speak to one another in an audible but ignored language. Passer-bys,
their heads full of potential thoughts, rush past each other, shoving, pushing,
bumping, but no one caring. They pound their feet against the weathered sidewalk
in high-priced shoes while trying to read the business section of the Times. Everyone
and everything moves within the confusion according to their purpose. Men yell
orders in foreign languages as they unload heavy boxes from and illegally parked
van. Above their heads, a billion tiny light bulbs scroll the moments stock quotes
as electrified billboards next to them scream advertising for everything from
underwear to bottled beverages. ItŐs thick. ItŐs so thick, so thick that most
live within it everyday without even knowing it. ItŐs tangible, full of invisible
sparks that fill the air, every ionic particle charged and ready to explode with
potential. It grows like a beast. More energy, more rhythm, more potential every
second that it continues. It invades every haven, every calm place. It travels
underground filling the pipes and the sewers with a resonating hum. Out through
windows of office buildings and in through windows of homes. Incessant noise,
never relenting, never retreating from any place. There is no escape. It grows.
It grows fast. It grows faster and faster each second. Charged. Electrified. It
extends itself in every direction, taking on unseen, unspeakable forms. It reaches
toward the sky, pushing its limits. And then, somewhere high, very, very high
above it all, near the heavens, there is a release. A crash. Forces stronger and
older than any synthetic, man-made energy ignite, filling the sky with a deep
gray-green hue. A low, distant, rumbling noise begins to exercise its voice, drowning
out all that speaks below. Potential. The greatest potential stuffs the sky full.
Slowly, very slowly, the drops begin to fall, traveling downward, gaining power
as they fall, gaining potential, potential to cleanse, to wash away the old and
prepare for the new.OTENTIAL by Shannon Snider A spark. A flash. A switch is flipped.
ItŐs off, weŐre off, racing forward at the speed of light. Fast. Really fast through
the wires, the cords, the web hidden in the walls, just in front of the 2x4Ős
and right behind the drywall. Up the side, hidden but gaining speed. Energy. Potential
energy. Potential. Faster, closer, faster, closer to release. Faster, quicker
yet. Weaving, turning, jutting over, under and around rafters, bracers, and side
beams, a veritable new forest for trees to meet their potential. No pauses. No
stops. Faster still. Nearer, nearer. The suspense, the driving towards the goal.
The goal, the release, the met potential. So close now. Down the wall, closer
still. Just a few more feet. So close. A micro-measure of time. A release, a climax,
an apex of energy streaming through the outlet and ultimately emerging in a sustaining,
useful ÔPREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNŐ. A hairdryer.
Gusts of hot, violent wind emitting from a useful plastic device. The gusts come
out, whipping her soft brown hair against her face and neck, tossing them up and
down into a medley of locks and tresses. She flips her hair over in one quick,
violent movement. Back up again with the same ferociousness, then down. Up. Again.
Down and up, down and up. She turns off the hairdryer and noisily throws it into
the sink. With one hand she picks up her hairbrush and tries to tame her unruly
locks, while the other hand grabs a cup of coffee that has been threatening to
fall off the ledge above the sink. Caffeine, caffeine, gotta get caffeine. Seconds
later the bathroom door thrusts open before the toilette is even done flushing.
She hurries to her closet, her perfectly coiffured hair bouncing with her hard
footsteps. She fumbles. She fumbles for her shoes. Where the hell can they be?
No, those arenŐt the right ones; they hurt her feet. Searching, searching, searching.
MaybeÉ. She turns away from her closet while reaching up and yanking on the string
attached to the light bulb. She dives to her knees and thrusts her arm under the
bed. She reaches, she gropes, she strains while her hair hangs in her face, some
getting stuck in her gooey lip-gloss. Finally, ah ha! One shoe, two shoes. Just
the right blue shoes. Yes. She stands up and quickly heads for the door. Rushing,
rushing time. In a hurry. Bag. She needs her bag. Why the hell canŐt she ever
find anything? She makes a re-occurring mental note to get more organized, but
knows she wonŐt. Ah! Behind the couch. Why the hell was it there? Keys, keys,
keys. She scans the room. On the table. Shoes, bag, keys. Yes. Good to go. Ready
and set. Full of potential. She takes one last gulp of coffee with one hand while
the other turns the doorknob. First swallow, second. She hastily goes to put the
still half-full coffee cup on the previously mentioned table, assuming her hand
and body move within the space of her apartment without the need of attention.
In and instant, less than a second, amazingly quickly, it falls slowly to the
floor, plummeting, twisting in the air, turned by turbulence, spilling the remainder
of the coffee out before it ever hits the wood on the floors. Expending all the
force of its gathered energy, it shatters into hundreds of tiny, little pieces.
Pieces fanning out in all directions, each one traveling as far as its potential
will allow, first vertically, then horizontally, slowly and finally skidding to
their stop. Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Not this, too. She doesnŐt have
time for this. No time, no time! Her first impulse is to grab a towel from the
kitchen and clean up the resting disaster, but she catches herself. Why? ItŐs
done. ItŐs over with. It can do no more harm. The harm will be done in wasting
more of the precious commodity, time. She feels good about her justification as
she throws open her front door and exits, slamming it hard behind her. She leaves,
bouncing along with her hair. Stillness. Silence. Clarity. Clear, quiet, stillness.
Warm, black coffee spreading its edges, uninhibited. Flowing. Filling space, limitless
space. Liquid, seeping into every crack, every knick, every scratch. Soaking.
Sinking. Drawn downward by gravity and its own need to wet what is dry. Spreading
its boundaries down through the now seeped wood, finding its way into the unseen,
finding the underworld alone. Its weight pulling it down, expanding past its potential.
Deeper still. It finds its way to hidden, under-step wires all a-buzz with electric
potential. In the quiet, in the stillness, without any permission at all (how
dare it!), the warm coffee envelops a web of wires. A hot flash! A bright, potent
spark! An immeasurable surge of energy from such a small, insignificant and unseen
scene. Too much and not enough simultaneously. Oh horrible disaster! All is now
quiet. All is dead. The late morning sunlight visibly streams through the split
in a set of insignificant curtains. Breathing. Deep breathing breaks the utter
silence with its rhythm. Slow, deep, involuntary breathing, void of emotion or
physical stress. Somewhere deep in an unconscious state, a mind begins to naturally
arouse itself. First come the subtle notions of space and location. Then awareness
of the body. Slowly, before he even opens his eyes, he becomes aware of the stiffness
of his limbs and muscles. As his mind and body naturally move from unconsciousness
to consciousness, he rolls over in his bed. He sighs deeply. The pace of his oncoming
active mind begins to quicken. Somewhere deep in the bowels of his mind there
is a feeling of uneasiness. It grows rapidly. It begins to disturb his peacefulness.
ItŐs closer. It begins to destroy his innocence. It comes racing now, racing to
pounce upon what is left of his subconscious oblivion, which itself has faded
to nearly nothing. A black cloud, a dreadful fact, which finally revealsÉÉAlarm!
Why didnŐt the alarm go off?! His body is instantly filled with adrenaline as
he bolts out of bed with one quick movement. He accusingly snaps his head to look
at his treacherous alarm clock. Blank. Nothing. Dead. Crap! His mind is racing.
He grabs a pair of crumpled shorts that lie on the floor. He pulls them on both
of his legs with one movement. His mind is still racing. Was there a storm? How
could the electricity be out? He rationalizes. He quickly grabs the handset of
the telephone and presses the ominous blue button that activates its potential.
Nothing. What? Oh! He remembers that a cordless phone requires electricity. He
curses the complexity of convenience as he shoves his feet into a pair of well-worn
sneakers. Seconds later the front door of his apartment swings open and he emerges,
emerges carrying a bicycle hoisted up near his shoulder. He begins to descend
a series of stairs, rhythmically hopping down them as his cumbersome bicycle bangs
noisily against the walls. Upon reaching the cacophonous street below, he tosses
a leg over the bicycle and mounts it swiftly. He pedals hard, gaining momentum
and speed. He darts around the pedestrians on the sidewalk, sometimes cautiously,
sometimes not. Quickly, he rotates the handlebars to move him from sidewalk to
street traffic. He gains more speed. Tiny beads of perspiration begin to form
on his forehead as he pushes his potential. Darting. Weaving. Moving in and out
of and around a plethora of slow-moving and parked delivery trucks, taxis filled
with anxious passengers, and adventurous motorists. He is quick, an experienced
bicycler in this energized city. He moves with confidence, pushed on by his own
adrenaline meshing with the fevered excitement of the city. Faster, faster. Must
make up for lost time. He immerses himself in the confusion of the city streets,
traveling streets and alleyways known only by a few, splashing through putrid
puddles of unknown liquid along the way. His shirt begins to stick to his body
despite the cooling effects of rushing against the air. A quick right. A quick
left. Dodging bullets disguised as Volvos and little old ladies with grocery bags.
Then, immersed, lost, swallowed by the energy of the city. The streets talk. They
scream. They speak to one another in an audible but ignored language. Passer-bys,
their heads full of potential thoughts, rush past each other, shoving, pushing,
bumping, but no one caring. They pound their feet against the weathered sidewalk
in high-priced shoes while trying to read the business section of the Times. Everyone
and everything moves within the confusion according to their purpose. Men yell
orders in foreign languages as they unload heavy boxes from and illegally parked
van. Above their heads, a billion tiny light bulbs scroll the moments stock quotes
as electrified billboards next to them scream advertising for everything from
underwear to bottled beverages. ItŐs thick. ItŐs so thick, so thick that most
live within it everyday without even knowing it. ItŐs tangible, full of invisible
sparks that fill the air, every ionic particle charged and ready to explode with
potential. It grows like a beast. More energy, more rhythm, more potential every
second that it continues. It invades every haven, every calm place. It travels
underground filling the pipes and the sewers with a resonating hum. Out through
windows of office buildings and in through windows of homes. Incessant noise,
never relenting, never retreating from any place. There is no escape. It grows.
It grows fast. It grows faster and faster each second. Charged. Electrified. It
extends itself in every direction, taking on unseen, unspeakable forms. It reaches
toward the sky, pushing its limits. And then, somewhere high, very, very high
above it all, near the heavens, there is a release. A crash. Forces stronger and
older than any synthetic, man-made energy ignite, filling the sky with a deep
gray-green hue. A low, distant, rumbling noise begins to exercise its voice, drowning
out all that speaks below. Potential. The greatest potential stuffs the sky full.
Slowly, very slowly, the drops begin to fall, traveling downward, gaining power
as they fall, gaining potential, potential to cleanse, to wash away the old and
prepare for the new.