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October 4, 2006


You have synesthesia. What's your world like?

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Jim: Through the Smelling Glass

Alice carefully read the same page again, enthralled with how Tennyson’s Charge of the Light Brigade filled her soul with molasses and sevens.

Stacatto flashes of silky orange cinnamon announced a visitor. “Coming,” her crystal voice pulsed ahead of her toward the door.

“It’s time to come home, Alice,” said the nice man with a voice like lemons and fur. He touched her arm in C Sharp and gently led her down the hallway.

Her mirrored reflection grew larger and larger until all Alice saw were the black pools of dilated pupils. “Best trip ever,” she murmured in rich mahogany.

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David: Two Guys

“Hey, man, what’s wrong? You look rough.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just feeling blue. There’s this girl I’m seeing. She sounds bright and looks hot, but she has no taste. She wears loud colors that clash.”

“That sounds like it stinks. But does she feel sweet on you?”

“She says so. But she won’t listen to what I try to show her.”

“I can see how she feels. If you push her too hard she’ll disappear. Do you want that?”

“What you just said? That was touching.”

“Don’t let this make you feel bitter. Listen, I gotta split. Smell you later.”

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Ted: Die! Pig! Die!

That has to be the stupidest cartoon ever. Ferdinand should have absolutely killed that stupid rabbit. When he waved that red cape, even MY blood boiled. The feel of red hurts my pancreas. The taste of flamenco dancing makes me vomit. Anvil is an absolutely evil sound. But the worst part; the part that gives me migraine headaches so bad I just wish the pressure front of oranges would roll over my brain and suffocate my hands, is that damn song. It crawls inside my head like a snake and whispers bad things into my soul.

"That's all Folks!"


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Stacy: Thrall

It came on suddenly. She was turning the earth in her garden, making ready to plant the new season of vegetables, when the taste of licorice overwhelmed her. She woke up in a muddy soup of her own vomit, flowers everywhere.

In the shower, the water was music, delicate tinkling bells, harps. The towel on her skin tasted like candy fluff.

She wandered though her home, enraptured. Favorite books had sounds, flavors. Old paintings had scents, vivid colors she’d never seen before. Even nightfall had its glamour, shimmering lights and sounds.

They found her emaciated body a few weeks later.

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From the Comments: Jeff R.

21st Century Moll:

Sex feels like music to her. A violin solo, usually, with most of her tricks. A bass guitar if they guy gets rough. A complicated fugue when she's home, with her girlfriend.

She handles all the cash for this neighborhood's Syndicate. Just looks at it, carefully. Counterfeits are usually too purple, and a set of marked bills with their adjacent serial numbers can make the whole pile turn pink.

There's probably a thousand just like her out there, and more coming out of the vats each day. The mob wouldn't let a set of genes this useful go to waste.

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Michele: To Spite My Brain

People who don't know what it's like to to be this way always think it would be cool.

It gets old quick. Especially when people always want to interview you and observe you and study you.

I got tired of being the missing link to someone's Nobel Prize quest.

Yes, I can feel colors. I can run my hands over a table and see a rainbow explode from it. My fingers have eyes.

No, I can't explain it to you.

But they were relentless.

So I cut off my hands.

But now, each time my wrists throb in pain, I hear music.

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