\nThey redesigned fire escapes over the last few decades. I never saw a problem with the rotted scaffolding they used to use, though I doubt it would have carried the weight of all 1,237 households in my building. It must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen years ago when they tore down every ladder in the city and replaced them with the Tubes.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m sitting on the iridescent ledge of a Tube now, just outside my forty-seventh floor apartment. My hand hovers over an enormous yellow button while I rock back and forth on the platform, which swaddles my legs in a slight bit of goo. I\u2019ve gotten in trouble a few times for pressing the button when there wasn\u2019t a fire. But it\u2019s the city\u2019s own fault for making the Tubes so comfortable. They wrap me up in this warm, heat-proof fabric, and soon I\u2019m drenched in slime, funneling a thousand miles a minute through the invisible chute system that hangs like honey over the skyscrapers. It\u2019s wonderful, and it lasts for ages\u2013like how I imagine it feels when most people sleep.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut then I get to the other end\u2013the fire station\u2013and I have to deal with Mr. Pliskova who always threatens legal action if I keep pulling the goopy fire alarm when I\u2019m not supposed to.\n<\/p>\n
\nI sigh, retract my fingers from the button and turn to the next best thing. My lighter tickles the bowl of my pipe with dainty, cygilistic sparks of electricity. Soon, yellow heat waves radiate from the drug in the glass before I suck it all up through my lips and my cheeks shiver with delight. Cold gas rakes my throat, but I keep it in for as long as I can. I feel the tingle of a cough building in my lungs and as I watch the sulfur smoke wisp from my lips, I wonder if that\u2019s what I\u2019ll become when I\u2019m gone.\n<\/p>\n
\nI shriek as something jumps onto my hand. I brush it off and scurry away. That\u2019s the other problem with the Tubes. For some reason, they like to wrap up dead things from the ground and send them up to the ledges. It happens so often that the mayor had to give a speech. She said she had no idea what caused it and after that, everyone just kind of accepted it. I nudge the little body over the edge and lean to see it disappear into the darkness below.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy attention catches on the building across from mine. I peer about twelve stories down into Julie\u2019s apartment. I think she leaves the window open to taunt me. I can see her and her new boyfriend fondling each other on her couch. I wonder if it still smells the same or if his scent has invaded the aroma I spent so long cultivating. They\u2019re watching a show I watched with her first. I shake my head as they get to my favorite bit, and don\u2019t look up from their incessant necking. She leaves the window open to taunt me.\n<\/p>\n
\nAnyways, I\u2019ve extracted every morsel of yellow goodness from my pipe, so I suppose it\u2019s time to head back inside. I\u2019m careful not to pinch my fingers on the windowsill as I crawl through unflatteringly. I don\u2019t want to feel any pain.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Hello, Pascal,” I say to my roommate as I pass by. Pascal\u2019s sitting in the usual spot, meditating as Pascal does. “How’s it going tonight? Got any plans?” Pascal doesn\u2019t respond, as usual. I don\u2019t expect anything more, I\u2019m not crazy.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere\u2019s a gun on the counter. It\u2019s old and the trigger looks like it could disintegrate at any second, but the bullets that jut out from its revolving chamber glint new. This is the weapon my grandfather kept in his waistband during the war. It\u2019s the one with which he shot a dozen fascists, and then himself. I admire it every day. I brush the dust off with the black feather I keep beside it, check to make sure it\u2019s still loaded, and inspect its various fiddly bits, wondering if it would work if I used it.\n<\/p>\n
\nI look up at the two doors in my apartment. On the left, the bathroom. Do I have to use the bathroom? Not really. It\u2019d be something to do, but I tried about an hour ago and I haven\u2019t drunk any water. On the right, the bedroom. Could I sleep? Probably not, and it would depress me to try.\n<\/p>\n
\nSo, I suppose it\u2019s time for my only hobby\u2013pacing around the living room in a wide circle, waiting for the drugs to kick in.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Hey, Pascal,” I say to Pascal as I pass by on my first revolution.\n<\/p>\n
\nI keep my apartment sparse. I read a book on spartanism a while back, thinking it was about the cool Greek guys. You know, statues, and battles and shit, but it turned out to be a life-coaching seminar on why it\u2019s better not to have furniture. I never really liked my furniture anyways, so I thought I\u2019d give it a try. I sent my couch, my coffee table, and my pay-per-view holographic television to the fire station.\n<\/p>\n
\nAll that\u2019s left is my grandfather\u2019s paisley rug. It covers the burns in the hardwood, and I feel it ties the whole room together, so I kept it.\n<\/p>\n
\n“What\u2019s good, Pascal?” I say on my second pass.\n<\/p>\n
\nThis goes on for half an hour, or until I start to wonder how long it\u2019s been. I glance to the smokey outline where my clock used to be, and once again salute Pascal. I\u2019ve also started to see tiny yellow figures in the corners of my eyes. They\u2019re exercising, stretching their limbs, smiling, and depending on my mood, conspiring to rob me. I know they\u2019re going to get bigger. I know they\u2019re going to turn into huge fractals that make me forget where I am. Soon, the drug will take over my mind and I won\u2019t feel like this anymore.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m tired, so I sit in front of Pascal. “Hi, Pascal,” I say again.\n<\/p>\n
\nPascal is an enormous, conglomerated shrine to every deity I\u2019ve ever come across. Pascal sits at eight feet tall, oozing with the industrial grade glue I used to piece it together. The body is composed of various religious texts, all of which have been perused, torn apart, and stuck back together like a lunatic\u2019s victim. It has the skull of a goat, the ears of an elephant, and ten divinely positioned hands that hold crustacean shells and stolen gemstones. I painted its base to look like those Tibetan clouds, but they turned out more reminiscent of dirty rags. Pictures of spiritual leaders sprout from Pascal\u2019s shoulders, all smiling at me, smelling of every incense I could find on top of sage, myrrh, vomit and hardening wax. Pascal is my passion project. If I\u2019m going to end it all, I may as well hedge my bets. I don\u2019t want any unpleasantries.\n<\/p>\n
\nThat being said, I really don\u2019t know how to pray to it all. I feel like I should, but to who? To what? For what?\n<\/p>\n
\nI turn around to make sure the old gun is still in its place. It always is because only Pascal and I live here. Right on the table next to\u2014\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s gone. I twist my head to various corners of the room, spying for dropped bits and pieces of it, but there\u2019s no trace. Did I move it and forget? I never move it. But maybe earlier today I decided it was finally time, and took it to the bedroom. I don\u2019t remember that, though. And as the drug whispers louder in my ear, do I really care about the old gun?\n<\/p>\n
\nI turn back to Pascal and rock back and forth on the hardwood. My ass starts to hurt. While I can stand it, I murmur incoherencies, hoping that if something is watching me, they might understand the feeling without the words. But soon, the yellow specters have clouded my peripherals, and I need to use the bathroom.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith a groan, I push up from the ground, and rub my eyes, missing the door handle twice before I catch it between two of my weakest fingers. Immediately upon entering the cracked-tile bunker of sewage piping, I turn to the mirror, and lift my shirt. It\u2019s not like I\u2019m going to go to the gym, or start eating healthier, so nothing will have changed, but I still shake my head as nausea slips up my esophagus.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Hello,” says someone in the bathtub. “We know you want to kill yourself.”\n<\/p>\n
\nI shriek and stumble back into the door, slamming my head on the wood. I point and scream “Get out! Who are you?” There are two women standing side-by-side in the faux marble basin. They wear trench coats and patinated leather bootstraps with modern ether rifles and futuristic control panel waistcoats. Two shy beeps sound out of time, and echo a series of red lights in their breast pockets that spasm on and off.\n<\/p>\n
\n“We\u2019re sorry to bother you,” says the one on the left, “but we have a matter of urgent business to discuss with you. My name is Captain Fronders, and this is Leftenant Muck. We are members of a government agency called AAMTT\u2013the Association for the Advancement of Military Time Travel. We would like to enlist your help.”\n<\/p>\n
\nI sputter and shake my head. “Time travel? Excuse me? Is this some kind of joke? Get out of my apartment.”\n<\/p>\n
\nThey disappear. No wind, no bright lights. The two women are gone, and I can\u2019t remember if I hallucinated them.\n<\/p>\n
\nI squeal again as a sudden wave of memory eclipses my thoughts. I fall to my knees. My heartbeat pounds in my brain as I experience a memory over and over again like it\u2019s always been there. But it feels entirely new.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen I look up, the women are back.\n<\/p>\n
\n“I remember you,” I wail. “I remember it now. You were at my elementary school. During volleyball practice. How\u2013You looked\u2026 completely different. But it was definitely you\u2013”\n<\/p>\n
\n“Yes,” replies the woman on the left. “We\u2019ve just come from there.”\n<\/p>\n
\nThe one on the right interrupts seamlessly. “Would you like to participate in our study?”\n<\/p>\n
\n“What?” is all I can manage to get out.\n<\/p>\n
\n“We are interested in your participation in our study. Are you familiar with the grandfather paradox?” She doesn\u2019t pause for me to respond. “What happens if one travels back in time and kills their own grandfather?”\n<\/p>\n
\n“We have been tasked with deciphering this problem,” continues the other. “But because of recently amended manslaughter legislation, we are unable to kill others in the past, we are only authorized to use\u2026 self-destructive methods. We find the whole grandfather part of it all redundant anyways. The paradox arises in the same way with even a one minute travel to the past. That being said, no one at our agency wants to test it. No one\u2019s willing to go back in time and kill themself.”\n<\/p>\n
\n“But since I already want to\u2026” I piece together.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Precisely.” Says the one on the left. “We want you to travel back in time, and sacrifice yourself to science.”\n<\/p>\n
\nA pause. I steady myself against the wall, and my towel falls off its hook. “I\u2019m too high for this,” I say. My vision is almost entirely consumed by the yellow shapes.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Come towards us,” they say. I stumble forward, hands grabbing in front of me. I feel knuckles on my shoulder, and instantly I\u2019m silenced. I try to scream, but my mouth moves too fast. My vision begins to clear, thoughts speeding along more swiftly than I can track them. When the women release me, I slump against the ridge of the bathtub, and catch my breath.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m sober.\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\n“Get some water,” says the left one. “You\u2019ve been sitting here for four hours and twenty-three minutes.”\n<\/p>\n
\nI gasp “Was that time travel?”\n<\/p>\n
\n“Get some water,” they say in unison.\n<\/p>\n
\nI nod, and push myself up. I stroke my hair, and dandruff falls into my eyeline as I hobble to the kitchen.\n<\/p>\n
\nI only keep three water bottles in the fridge at a time. That\u2019s one day’s worth. I have one left. Water arrives every morning through an unmarked box in the wall. It\u2019s bottled in thin metal tubes with, unlike everything else in this city, zero visual advertisement.\n<\/p>\n
\nI untwist the safety cap, and it fizzes open. The water tastes like I want fast food. It smells like I\u2019m craving a four piece chicken tender box deal with fries and a shake. That\u2019s how they get you. I\u2019m not hungry, but the water tells me I am.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe time travelers have followed me out of the bathroom.\n<\/p>\n
\n“What if I say no?” I ask.\n<\/p>\n
\n“You won\u2019t,” one replies. “This will give your life meaning. This will make you remembered.”\n<\/p>\n
\nI pause to think about it, but soon I realize there isn\u2019t much more to it than there was before.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Are there any theories on what will happen to me?”\n<\/p>\n
\n“Death. And then displacement.”\n<\/p>\n
\n“What\u2019s displacement?” I ask.\n<\/p>\n
\n“We have no idea,” she responds.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Will it get worse than this?” I say, gesturing to the apartment.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Can it?” I don\u2019t respond, so she continues. “We only understand displacement as the fundamental reason time travel works. We can\u2019t add matter to the past, so we don\u2019t actually send your body. We implant your consciousness into a vessel which already existed in the time we\u2019re targeting. Since your sentience has no mass, it can be displaced anywhere we intend to put it.”\n<\/p>\n
\n“A vessel?” I frown.\n<\/p>\n
\n“With small mammals like rats, we can temporarily possess a living creature, implant our time traveling rat\u2019s mind into it, and when we\u2019re done, return the body to its owner, but in humans, we find more difficulty. We\u2019re forced to use an empty vessel.”\n<\/p>\n
\n“A corpse,” I whisper.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Unfortunately,” the woman\u2019s tone is unwavering. “Luckily, this vicinity has an abundance of the two components we need in order to guarantee success. I\u2019m sure you\u2019re aware there is a morgue here on the ground floor. But you may not know that a chink in the Tube lies in the alley behind the building\u2013a vacuum point that sucks up dead things, and spits them out in various places. You\u2019re familiar with the deceased rodents that appear on your balcony. You will embody a dead man, enter through the vacuum point, and it will send you up to this apartment, four hours and thirty-one minutes ago.”\n<\/p>\n
\nI stop to think, but I\u2019m only thinking about how I should be thinking. I already know what I\u2019m going to do. “Did you take my gun?” I ask finally.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Please come to the center of the room,” one commands.\n<\/p>\n
\nI guzzle down the rest of my water and stand where they\u2019re pointing.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe looks me in the eyes. Hers shimmer, trying to hide her giddiness. I know mine are deep set and darkened by what I convince myself is shadow. Mine are thin, and slow blinks peel away the time though which they\u2019re conscious like lazy camera shutters.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Are you ready?” She asks, but she knows what I\u2019ll say.\n<\/p>\n
\n“I\u2019m ready,” I nod.\n<\/p>\n
\nGoing back is different than going forward. It\u2019s gentler. I don\u2019t feel the time pass. I\u2019m not stuck like I was. Traveling into the future had been like fast-forwarding. Everything had happened, I just sped through them. But this is a removal. I peel away from my body. For a moment, I can\u2019t tell where my ends are. My mind is entirely focused on the situation, but I have to keep reminding myself who I am in it. I have to break out of what seems like normal now: the feeling that I match the universe in its own frequency.\n<\/p>\n
\nThen, I can\u2019t breathe.\n<\/p>\n
\nOver the course of a few seconds, I teach it to myself. First, I flounder, opening and closing my mouth without anything going in. Then my throat comes unstuck and my first swath of air tastes like formaldehyde. I cough it out and shoot up. I yelp as my head slams against a metal roof, but I catch a glimpse of my form.\n<\/p>\n
\nThis is not my body. This is a lanky, oddly shaped corpse with bony knees and a concave stomach. Suture lines snake down its abdomen and come to conjoining cruxes in its nethers. It doesn\u2019t feel like I can function in it for long. I think several of my organs are missing. I fear it won\u2019t be able to support my invasion for more than a few hours.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy movement has caused the steel casket I\u2019m in to shimmy out from the others. I peer out into a laboratory. It\u2019s closed for the night and only the red exit light and the bustling city outside make it possible to see. I twist over the edge of my cot and hop to the floor. My legs shiver, remembering how to walk. The first steps come slowly as I steady myself against a bench with a few electronic laser scalpels. Quicker than I thought, though, I\u2019m able to tiptoe through the room.\n<\/p>\n
\nI head for the side door, which leads to the alley between this building and Julie\u2019s. Luckily the door has a deadbolt instead of those newfangled aura-ID ones that are impossible to pick.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe lock\u2019s mechanism echoes against the metal walls of the mortuary, and I freeze for a second. No one comes, so I step out into the street.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s cold. I\u2019m naked. A prostitute watches me in disgust from behind a pile of broken glass.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhere am I supposed to go? The women didn\u2019t tell me exactly where the entrance to the Tube is. Tubes are invisible to the naked eye, so the alley looks empty. I take a step down the sidewalk, and avoid a pile of syringes with glitching, holographic needlepoints.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere must be a clever way to think up a solution. I scratch my shaved head as a drop of rain, or city soot tickles my knuckle. I move beneath a prefab balcony that\u2019s been tacked on to the building like a brutalist leech.\n<\/p>\n
\nArms fold around me. I don\u2019t know why I don\u2019t protest. Instead, I close my eyes\u2013it seems natural. First the hands grip my shoulder, and then with warm digits they snake down the scars on my belly. They tuck my head into a fetal position. I sneak a glance and find them not to be hands at all, rather the familiar goop rags that lubricate the tubes. Bits of street gunk speckle the liquid it leaves between my lips. I squirm to feel its hold on every inch of my skin at once. This must be what a good sleep feels like.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m floating. For a while, my feet levitate a few inches from the ground.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe prostitute has come out from the garbage and gawks at me with a toothless maw. I may be the first conscious thing to slip through a chink in the Tubes. I feel accomplished. Time to kill myself.\n<\/p>\n
\nSomething slurps me up. It carries me at what I can only assume is near light speed. Wind is too slow for me. My ears pop, and my cheeks dangle open, leaking out raw saliva that mingles with the Tube\u2019s own juices. At this speed, I should be up the forty-seven floors in a heartbeat, but the journey takes seconds, and then minutes. I hope it lasts forever.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s cold when it abandons me, sopping wet on the balcony of my apartment. I recognize it from the stink of ash and empty space. I can feel the warmth of Julie\u2019s apartment twelve stories down. I tell myself I\u2019m not going to look. But immediately I fold and turn around. They\u2019ve paused the show to do much worse. I know she leaves the window open to spite me. I nod at the face of Leonard Harquit, my favorite actor, frozen on the screen.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy pipe sits beside me, still smoldering. Oh, man, I really want to take a hit. I really really want to take a hit. No, this body couldn\u2019t handle it. I look inside to distract myself.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere I was. I was just sitting in front of Pascal, rocking side to side, pelvis rubbing on the hardwood. Pascal eclipsed me. I\u2019ve never seen myself beside it. I was just this tiny jumble of motion. I look powerless, though I always thought we were equals. Pascal dripped wax and putrid grease from its fingers that fell and solidified in my hair. This god makes me nothing.\n<\/p>\n
\nI know I didn\u2019t see myself as I climb through the windowsill unflatteringly. I\u2019m careful to avoid the nails that jut out from the drywall. I don\u2019t want to feel any pain.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe floorboards creak, but not for long enough to disturb the figure that wept beneath the colossal rot. I creep onto the rug, and inch behind the candles, flickering in and out of visibility.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy gun is on the counter. It has been cleaned recently. I pick it up, and though this body has never held it, muscle memory places my palm on the hilt, and my knuckle around the trigger. I step behind the curtains, out of the light.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sitting me coughed, and turned frantically, muttering something. He spied the gun missing on the counter and let out an inebriated shriek. I clutch it to my chest and hold my breath.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt felt like much more time had passed earlier, but not twenty seconds later, the old me had forgotten about the gun entirely, stood up from the floor, and staggered to the bathroom. For no reason, he locked the door behind him.\n<\/p>\n
\nI step out into the open. The gun hangs limp in my hand.\n<\/p>\n
\nI flinch as I hear myself exclaim from behind the door. I mouth along “Get out! Who are you?”\n<\/p>\n
\nThe conversation unfolded as I remember it. The women were calm and dominating. My voice was shriller than I thought, but I didn\u2019t say anything I wouldn\u2019t have myself. Finally, the me in the bathroom made the rational decision to come clean: “I\u2019m too high for this.”\n<\/p>\n
\nFour hours and twenty two minutes pass.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy ankles hurt, my skin has sweated, stunk, and recoiled into rigor mortis. I stretched for a while. I wandered around, greeting Pascal every time. I even peeked into the bathroom for a second, but that was a mistake\u2013just three completely immobile bodies in there\u2013a bit too spooky for me. And I\u2019ve come to terms with all this. So, I\u2019m back in my position by the far wall, both hands firmly placed on either side of the gun. I point it at exactly my eye level.\n<\/p>\n
\nMovement inside.\n<\/p>\n
\nOne woman says something different than the first time. “Step outside, please. We\u2019ll be with you in a moment.” That\u2019s odd.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe doorknob jiggles, and I tighten my grip. A sliver of light escapes. My foot falls sloppily between the tiles, and the wood. Then the rest of me emerges. I\u2019m slumped. My eyes are black holes. My teeth chatter with each step.\n<\/p>\n
\nThen I look up at myself. I think I recognize myself, even though now I\u2019m in a different body. There\u2019s this lack of shock\u2013some kind of understanding between us. Old me pulls the door shut. I hate him. He\u2019s grotesque. His clothes are weeks unwashed. His lips are flaky and his body shivers with illness. I hate everything that he is. He smiles. I pull the trigger.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s over.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut it\u2019s not like I imagined it. Some part of me continues. First, I am the smoke that erupts from the jagged end of the gun. I wisp.\n<\/p>\n
\nThen, I am both halves of myself, staring at each other in their suicidal standoff. I feel both sets of hands, both heartbeats and blinks. I feel my own skull crack, and I see the inside of my brain through the bullet\u2019s eyes. The bullet grinds to a stop as it reaches my occipital lobe. The world pauses.\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd all at once, it begins again. The women observe from a corner, fiddling with some incoherent jittering device. I see through their eyes and together we watch two corpses drop to the ground. The women know that in some future they must have arranged for this, but to them that hasn\u2019t happened yet. They\u2019re confused. To everyone except me, there is no paradox. One man, miraculously brought back to life, has shot and killed another. Physics has straightened itself out. Logic has glossed over the inconsistency. The women\u2019s machines will never collect data that says otherwise. Only I will ever know it was me in both bodies. Only I am privy to my own suicide.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhat\u2019s left of me bubbles up like a shaken soda, or a rabid mouse. I\u2019m bubbling past the limit of the four figures in the apartment\u2013bubbling fueled by some expanse I can\u2019t quantify. My mind tears a seam open and gushes out from itself. I become more.\n<\/p>\n
\nSuddenly, I am the air. I am the cardinal winds that tug on the Earth and I am the hot air that trickles out from Julie\u2019s broken, eternally on furnace. I am the window she leaves open for it to escape. I am her memories of myself.\n<\/p>\n
\nNow I am everyone.\n<\/p>\n
\nGargantuan cycles of death and desire churn deep inside me where I can\u2019t comprehend anything except that they are me. I am heard throughout time, echoed and acknowledged by myself. I am colossal. I no longer feel time pass. But this is not death after all; I am displaced.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy last resting place is everywhere. I am the light and the black holes that swallow them. I am Pascal. I am the universe.\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd finally, I love all that I am.\n<\/p>\n
Hec is a writer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His stories can be found with Fairlight Press, Lit. 202, Alternate Route Journal, Fleas on the Dog, and others. He won the 2022 Bill Avner Creative Writing Award and is working on his debut novel.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
They redesigned fire escapes over the last few decades. I never saw a problem with the rotted scaffolding they used to use, though I doubt it would have carried the weight of all 1,237 households in my building. It must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen years ago when they tore down every ladder in the …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107975,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20140],"tags":[20141],"class_list":["post-140375","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-53-autumn-2024","tag-the-colored-lens-53-autumn-2024","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140375","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107975"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140375"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140375\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140377,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140375\/revisions\/140377"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140375"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140375"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140375"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}