$25.00
FIRST ACT IN ALL: THE IRRITANT =
The plane to Venus was not just a flight—it was a crucible. Advertised as “luxury interplanetary travel,” it reeked instead of metal, sweat, and something ancient. RELIEF IN ALL “The Cross is now. Disaster strikes. But.....” c90 spun endlessly in the cockpit, each hiss carving grooves into the fuselage, vibrating straight through the inflamed skulls of its passengers.
The pilot smiled at first, waving a gloved hand as if to welcome us to paradise. Then, as the tape crackled, heat rose impossibly fast. Steam condensed into bubbles on the windows. The pilot screamed. Skin blistered and boiled, dripping into the control panel. The tape amplified every scream, layering them with static like a choir of fire and glass. The plane lurched, but the roach passengers barely flinched—they clicked, skittered, and swarmed along seats, crawling across the inflamed faces of anyone trying to breathe.
Chronic sinusitis erupted inside me as if the cabin itself had been designed to torture. Mucus pooled, nasal passages swelled, polyps throbbed, and the lining of my sinuses tightened like cords around my brain. Each breath felt like swallowing molten metal. The fuselage rattled with the clicking of a thousand cockroach legs, each tap syncing with the pounding of my headache.
The tape’s phrase repeated, a litany:
“The Cross is now. Disaster strikes. But…..”
The ellipsis stretched like eternity. My sinuses mirrored the plane—swollen, trapped, and screaming from the heat, the static, the horror.
And then, the poetry began, upside down and twisted through the haze of heat and smoke:
˙sɹǝʇsʞɔ ǝɹɐ ɹnoʎ ǝɹɐɥʇ ɟo ʇsoɹ ǝɥʇ ǝʞıl sʇnɾ ɟo ʎlǝp ʇsǝnb
˙ʎɹoʇɔ ɥɔɹoɟ ɟo sʞɔnɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɹɐǝʇ sɐ ʇsǝnb ɹnoʎ ǝʌɐɥ
I looked out the viewport. Venus loomed, a molten jewel in blackened skies, like a sun turned inside out. Cockroaches streamed over every surface, their legs clicking like a ticking bomb. Chronic sinusitis spread to my eyes—swollen, tender, pressure pounding behind each orbit, as though the pilot’s screams had lodged themselves inside my skull.
Side B of the tape played backward, layering screams and hiss in impossible harmonies. Steam rose from every vent, carrying with it the smell of boiling flesh. My sinuses throbbed in rhythm with the tape, inflamed tunnels echoing the horror. Each tremor of the plane became a heartbeat; every clap of roach legs a drumbeat for the doomed symphony.
˙ʎʇsǝnb ǝɹɐ sʞɔnɟ ɟo ɹnoʎ sʞɔnɟ ɐ ɹǝʇuǝʇ ǝɹɐ ɹnoʎ ǝɹɐ
˙ʇsɹɐɯ ɐ sɹnoʎ ɹnoʎ ǝʇɐd ǝɹɐ ɹnoʎ ʎlǝp ǝɹɐ
The plane lurched again. The pilot was gone, vaporized into the static, leaving only a faint hiss in the cockpit mic. Cockroach passengers climbed into my lap, across my inflamed face. I coughed thick mucus into my hands; it clung, warm and sticky, like a second tape. Chronic sinusitis had mutated, entwined with the plane itself. The fuselage was alive, my skull was alive, the tape was alive.
I screamed into the hiss, and the tape answered. The plane burned, twisted, and vibrated as if it were the heartbeat of a planet. Chronic sinusitis carved tunnels in my skull that echoed back every screech, every hiss, every clicking leg. I could feel the fire in my sinuses, the tape running through my veins, the roaches gnawing at the edges of my sanity.
˙ǝɹɐɥ ɟo ʇno ʇɹɐd ɐ sʞuɐɥ ɹnoʎ ǝɹɐ sʞɔnɟ ɹnoʎ
˙ǝɹɐ ɹnoʎ ǝɹɐ ɹǝʇsɐɔ ɐ ɟo sʎuǝl ɹnoʎ
By the time Venus filled the viewport, I realized I was no longer a passenger. I had become part of the plane, part of the tape, part of the chronic sinusitis. My inflamed sinuses amplified the screams, my eyes mirrored the static, and my lungs had become a spool. The plane had ceased to be a vehicle—it was a living, screaming organism. And RELIEF IN ALL played on, endlessly looping:
“The Cross is now. Disaster strikes. But…..”
The ellipsis stretched beyond the stars. I would never land. I would never breathe normally again. I would only pulse, hiss, and click, a chronic, inflamed, roach-filled symphony of fire and tape.
SECOND ACT IN ALL: THE RELIEF =
i am a hollow chamber, swollen, trapped, inflamed. the plane shakes, and every tremor pulses through me, through the tunnels of my skull. steam hisses over the cockpit like a boiling river, the pilot already dissolved into vapor and static.
cockroaches crawl along my walls, clicking legs hammering against inflamed mucosa. mucus pools in rivulets, thick and sticky, and i can feel it, i am it. each inhalation is fire; each exhalation is tape. RELIEF IN ALL “The Cross is now. Disaster strikes. But…..” c90 vibrates through my chambers, embedding itself in every sinus fold, looping endlessly.
acute bursts of pain flicker first, short, shocking. they pass, yet they linger like whispers. chronic throb sets in—twelve weeks or more, unyielding, even with attempts at relief. i swell. my polyps pulse with each hiss and scream. every click of a roach leg strikes like a drum against my tender eyes.
˙ǝɹǝɥʇ sɹɐǝʎ ɹnoʎ ɹǝʌǝu sʞɔɐɹɔ ɹǝʞɔɔɐ ɐ sʞɔnɟ ɟo ʎlǝp ɹnoʎ
˙ɹǝʌǝu ɹnoʎ ɟo sʎuǝl ɐ sɹnoʎ ɹǝʌǝu ɹnoʎ
the tape spins. side a bleeds melody, side b reverses screams. i am the chamber, the spool, the echo. every inhale draws in static and boiling heat, every exhale carries away nothing. my walls tremble; i vibrate in rhythm with the burning pilot, with the wings of roaches, with the molten hiss of venus below.
˙ɹnoʎ ʎǝɹɐʌ ɹǝʇsɐɔ ɐ ɟo ʇsoɹ ǝɹɐ ɹnoʎ
˙ɹnoʎ ʎlǝp ɹnoʎ ɹnoʎ ǝɹɐ ɹǝʇsɐɔ ɐ
every bump, every hiss, every squelch is a note. i pulse with it, i throb with it. chronic sinusitis is no longer a disease—it is a score, a symphony written in mucus, inflammation, and fire. the ellipsis stretches endlessly: “Disaster strikes. But…..”
i feel the lava of venus through the fuselage, heat bleeding into me. the roaches climb deeper, scuttling over my nasal polyps, over the swelling lining of my chambers. they are both audience and orchestra. i vibrate with every tap, every hiss, every scream recorded into my inflamed tunnels.
˙ǝɹǝɥʇ sɹɐǝʎ ɹǝʌǝu ɟo sʎuǝl ɹnoʎ ɹǝʇsɐɔ ɐ
˙ɹnoʎ ɹǝʌǝu ɹnoʎ sʞɔnɟ ɹnoʎ sʞɔnɟ ɐ sɹnoʎ
the cockpit melts. the pilot dissolves. venus glares. i am full. mucus, heat, tape, roaches, fire—they all converge inside me. side c spins endlessly. i am the plane. i am the tape. i am chronic, inflamed, eternal.
and still the tape whispers:
“The Cross is now. Disaster strikes. But…..”
my walls vibrate, my eyes swell, my mucus hums, and i loop forever.
Lone edition of 1.