
GROUNDRUSH
Every point comes from flying close to the thing that kills you — and none of it is yours until the canopy opens.
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Every point comes from flying close to the thing that kills you — and none of it is yours until the canopy opens.

The repo men left you two flippers and a drain. Buy the table back one bumper at a time — and remember, the tilt bob never sleeps.

You never move the mould. You paint hunger onto the agar and it flows there — stretch a vein too thin and the plate saws you in half.

The kite is bait. The string is the knife. Whoever's line slides faster does the cutting — so tug until yours screams.

The clock rewinds every 24 seconds. The vermin come back. So do you — all of you.


Sticks and stones are no use here. An eight-letter word, though — that's artillery.

Anyone can knock a tower down. Dropping it between two untouched neighbors — that's the job. Set your delays and send the plunger.

Every thread costs silk. Every catch buys more. Then something lands in the web that you do not want to keep.

Congestion's up. The city has a fix: another road through your intersection. You're the traffic light. Good luck.

The cave is pitch black and your voice is your eyes. But the moths hear you, the tiger moths lie, and the owl knows where you screamed.

Nothing on the timetable waits for repairs. Patch the trestle between whistles — then watch eighty tons test your carpentry.

Short-order cook, long-period swell. Everything you're not holding is already sliding.

Your health, weapon and legs are one gauge — and every clash pours spin from the slower top into the faster one. Bet it well.

Your perfect racing line only works once. The road remembers where you drove — then drops it into the void.

Your only weapon leaves you every time you use it. Throw the curve, dodge unarmed, and pray for a clean catch.

Every crystal in the opera house has one note it cannot survive. Your job is to find it — before the breath runs out.

Past fourteen meters the sea stops pushing you out and starts pulling you in. The pearls know exactly where that line is.

She's dancing you a map: angle from the sun, waggles for the miles. Unfortunately, the sun refuses to hold still.

The mountain is loading a gun aimed at the village below. Your job is to fire first — one small avalanche at a time.

Every dodge game taught you to run from the lightning. Tonight you drive the rod — and the town needs you standing under it.

The wire forgives one lean, never the second — and the pigeons have decided your balance pole is a bench.

Your shell never grows. Everything you want costs a sprint across open sand, and the gull knows exactly what you look like without it.

A raindrop only slides while it's heavy — and the glass drinks you the whole way down.