Time Warp Zipper | Mike Corum
I’m at work, the day dragging. I continually
glance at the clock - the hands do not budge.
I walk to the breakroom; all my co-workers are
still as mannequins. I leave the building, see
what’s going on outside—traffic completely
stopped, birds stuck mid-flight, water flushing
from hydrants appears frozen. I’m in a time warp.
I jump a bike and ride to the edge of town where I
spot an enormous zipper floating in the horizon.
I slide the zipper tab and crawl through the opening.
I am blinded by white brilliance. My eyes adjust.
I see a giant clock pendulum hanging from clouds.
Not moving. I lunge against the great bob; it begins
to rock, left to right. I hear a zipping noise behind me,
run to get through before it closes. I walk to my bike,
look to the sun to gauge my direction. I can’t be sure,
but I think the sun just winked at me. I reach for
the handlebars—bursting quietly into particles of time.