((
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQB3AptIOHc
))
F: My mother always said I was too damn curious. So I just couldn’t help myself when I saw the two kids sneak off into the alley, him dragging her by the arm. They were both young and living the life, nothing urgent about their mannerisms, just running along with smiles on their faces. I checked my watch to see if I had enough time before I had to go and stare at my computer. I hate working the weekends, not that the drudgery of the weekdays is any better, but the extended lunches were a short vacation in and of themselves. Groaning as I pushed myself off the bench, I slapped my hat back on my head and tossed the remainder of my tea into the bin. Gazing up and down the street, I saw nothing else worth occupying my time with, so I sauntered on down to where I had last seen the pair. A quick glance over my shoulder, making sure nobody was spying on me, and I took a quick glance around the corner, down the alley.
Well, they weren’t fucking, let me just make that abundantly clear. And no, there was no ‘making of love’ either. No rape, no beating, nothing scary or of the sorts. They were flopped behind a dumpster on a pile of trash bags, using an old refrigerator box to buffer between them and the rotting condoms and apples stuffed in the black bags. His fingers were intertwined with hers. Their forearms and hands pointed towards the sky like a steeple. He smiled. She smiled. Their sun burnt faces didn’t crease with it, but rather burst at the seams. Between the light of their faces shined the light of the joint they passed back and forth. As their conversation went on, unheard by my ears, that little light danced and flickered, burned slightly brighter then faded away. It was almost as if it were an author’s pencil, punctuating each sentence as it swooped through the air, vividly describing each laugh and bringing to light the theme of their conversation. I looked at my watch again. My how time flies while others are having fun.
I had those damn kids stuck in my head the rest of the day. Designing that better mousetrap wasn’t able to keep their grinning faces from slamming to the front of my mind. Why couldn’t they have been doing something sordid or, on all accounts, truly fucked up? I could have just shook my head in disgust or walked away. Yet here I am with their laughter echoing in my head. Finally, five o’clock came, and I made my way home. I climbed the stairs to my shoddy little apartment, passed the piss stain that had been grounding into the carpet with memorized grace, stopped, and turned on my heels towards my door. But this wasn’t my door. This was Ronnie’s, our local meet-and-greet-have-a-seat hippie. I don’t remember knocking, but that’s unsurprising. That laughter seemed to be hijacking my body. We exchanged pleasantries after I assured him for the umpteenth time that “No, this isn’t the police.” I danced around the topic of what I really wanted a bit. Ronnie’s eyes got a little shifty at this point. At least I think they did, but with his lids half closed and the majority of his eyes being redder than a thousand suns, it gets difficult to tell. After a bit I was relaxing in my living room, $100 poorer, but a bag of grass richer.
An hour later, I finally worked up the nerve to go back over and knock on Ronnie’s door again. He put up less of a fight this time, and cracked the door until the chain pulled tight against the frame.
“Hey man, what’s the problem now?”
“Hey Ronnie, um, well, it’s kinda mechanical.”
“Like, engines and shit? I just do the vegetation shit and stuff, man.”
“No, it’s, well.” I began to rub my eyes, the aggravation at myself beginning to build. “This is, y’know. My first time.”
“Wha? Oh man. Oh man, oh man. I did not know. I always figured you for a straight up kinda guy but I figured you were a kid once.”
“Yeah. A kid. Um, so I’ve got no papers or pipes or anything. What do I do?”
Never let it be said that those who spend their time in a cloud of smoke are not engineer grade material. Within a minute Ronnie had given me detailed instructions on how to make a pipe out of a can. I thanked him and half jogged back to my apartment, ready to find out just where the smiles come from. It burned my throat, made my sinuses cry in agony, punished my lungs, and gave me such a coughing fit that I swore I could hear Ronnie laughing all the way at the other end of the hall. I crawled to the kitchen and got a tall glass of water, hoping something, anything would cool my throat.
Halfway through the glass I noticed that water only pours down and not up. If only water would pour up, there wouldn’t need to be water pumps to get water to the toilets at the top of my office building. I could save the company, like, hundreds if not thousands in utility bills if I could just find some way to implement this. I began to draw out the schematics for the upward pouring system, detailed with exit strategies and the conundrum of getting the water to go back down and not hurl off into space, providing passing aliens with samples of our urine and excrement. After a bit of brainstorming, I noticed that my stomach was trying to chew its way out by way of my navel. The refrigerator was empty, no Pop Tarts in the pantry, whatever was I to do? There was a fabulous Chinese take-out restaurant about three blocks away, I could maybe make it without attracting notice to myself.
That’s when it hit me. I’d attract attention to myself. I’d never make it without stumbling up and falling on some granny and her walker. The police would find me and take me away. The headlines would read “Local Engineer Sentenced to Life for Assault on a Granny”. Then the drug tests. Losing my job. Humiliating my family. The horror! The horror! I curled up beside my television, the paranoia deep in my brain, willing my stomach not to send me to prison.
I awoke the next day covered in herbs and spices. I threw the remainder of the weed into the back of my closet. It’s too scary to deal with that kind of fear, never sure whether or not you’re going to screw up your life or not. I just didn’t feel worth risking it for that bit of childish joy. It’s a sort of abject terror, I suppose. Then a week later, I saw the same two kids, fashionably grungy in their denim jeans with holes torn in the knees and right under the ass. They were still smiling and giggling while everyone else around them moped along with their weekly routines, those little rays of sunshine on an otherwise gloomy Saturday.
I have a new bag of pot now, as well as a full stocked fridge. Sure, the fear sets in now and then, but at least it’s not constant anymore. I think I finally realized that a little bit of happiness is worth all that risk. Everyone needs a little break in their routine. Something to spice it up a little bit, to give them a feeling of happiness that sixty hours a week in a rug lined box, pounding out schematics for another end table just can’t offer. If not, I’ve still got those plans for the upwards pouring water system to make me fucking rich.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I'm taking her home with me, all dressed in white..
((
))
F: He walks down the windowless hallway, black leather shoes tapping along the tile. The fluorescent glare of the hallway makes his eyes squint as they adjust from the pleasant ambient light of the lobby. The nurse in front of him sways slightly; the skirt of her uniform twitches with each stride. His eyes are glued to her legs as they pass the thick and reinforced doors lining the hallway. No patients can be seen through the rectangular windows embedded into the doors. They continue to walk, she continues to sway, he continues to turn the thoughts over and over in his mind of places he would rather be, especially with her company. Halfway down, their feet stop and the nurse turns to him, a plastic container in her hands.
“No keys, no clipboards, no pens or pencils. No metal objects. No nail clippers, no nail files and no jewelry of any type,” she says.
“You say no to an awful lot of things,” he replies as he empties his pockets and flashes a grin to her.
“Rules are rules, Mr. Daenetri.” Her lips slip into a half smile. “But I will also need your belt.”
He laughs and drops a ring of keys, two silver plated pens, an engraved cigarette case and his wedding ring into the container. He takes his time undoing his belt and slides it out of the loops, twirls it around as if he were a stripper, and finally hands it over, letting his smile grow a little wider. The nurse’s smile begins to grow and she unlocks the door.
“You have thirty minutes, Mr. Daenetri.” She turns and begins to retrace her steps.
“Thank you, Alice.” He takes a breath and thinks of the conversations he has had with the patient in this particular room. Have any of them lasted thirty minutes? No. This case never shows any results, and the patient knows it. The patient’s husband had insisted on this meeting today, begging for her counselor to make some actual progress. Mr. Daenetri’s teeth begin to grind together. He had informed the husband that he had been trying the past year to coerce the patient into at least attempting to cooperate with the hospital, and then after a slightly heated discussion, asked the husband just how often he visited his wife. He smiles at the memory of the dial-tone calling out over the line. He reaches for the handle.
As he enters the white, cushioned room, he spots her in the corner. Mary sits there, wrapped up like a Christmas present, the straight jacket’s arms tied in a mocking bow. Her eyes flicker to his through the plume of red hair spilling across her face. Neither moves, speaks, or breathes. At last, the man breaks the silence:
“Mrs. Arnofsky, it’s time to go through the review again.”
“They’re not going to let me out. Why are you bothering me? Is it the money?” She laughs, her slender frame shaking.
“Mary, you’ve made some very good progress here, we can at least get your status dropped and you out of this wing and out of that jacket,” his voice calls out, almost convincing.
“This room is safe. This room is God.” Her eyes grow brighter and she continues, “and he thinks I’m just fine and dandy. Nope, nope. No review, no review.” A wide smile breaks out across her face.
“Mary, you have to listen to me, I’m telling-”
“Nope. Nope. Not anymore. I can deal with him from in here. I can be safe!”
“I’m telling you, we can get you moved to a lower ward and they will-”
“There’s no place for me down there in his reach. It won’t work. I’m staying!”
“Please will you just liste-”
“No. I’m not going to let him get at me again. Too many angels floating around…”
“Please,” his eyes begged her to regain her balance.
“Hope is all I have. I’m not going back. Not gonna be there again. Not gonna do it.”
She continues to babble on, her eyes dart across the ceiling in fear.
))
F: He walks down the windowless hallway, black leather shoes tapping along the tile. The fluorescent glare of the hallway makes his eyes squint as they adjust from the pleasant ambient light of the lobby. The nurse in front of him sways slightly; the skirt of her uniform twitches with each stride. His eyes are glued to her legs as they pass the thick and reinforced doors lining the hallway. No patients can be seen through the rectangular windows embedded into the doors. They continue to walk, she continues to sway, he continues to turn the thoughts over and over in his mind of places he would rather be, especially with her company. Halfway down, their feet stop and the nurse turns to him, a plastic container in her hands.
“No keys, no clipboards, no pens or pencils. No metal objects. No nail clippers, no nail files and no jewelry of any type,” she says.
“You say no to an awful lot of things,” he replies as he empties his pockets and flashes a grin to her.
“Rules are rules, Mr. Daenetri.” Her lips slip into a half smile. “But I will also need your belt.”
He laughs and drops a ring of keys, two silver plated pens, an engraved cigarette case and his wedding ring into the container. He takes his time undoing his belt and slides it out of the loops, twirls it around as if he were a stripper, and finally hands it over, letting his smile grow a little wider. The nurse’s smile begins to grow and she unlocks the door.
“You have thirty minutes, Mr. Daenetri.” She turns and begins to retrace her steps.
“Thank you, Alice.” He takes a breath and thinks of the conversations he has had with the patient in this particular room. Have any of them lasted thirty minutes? No. This case never shows any results, and the patient knows it. The patient’s husband had insisted on this meeting today, begging for her counselor to make some actual progress. Mr. Daenetri’s teeth begin to grind together. He had informed the husband that he had been trying the past year to coerce the patient into at least attempting to cooperate with the hospital, and then after a slightly heated discussion, asked the husband just how often he visited his wife. He smiles at the memory of the dial-tone calling out over the line. He reaches for the handle.
As he enters the white, cushioned room, he spots her in the corner. Mary sits there, wrapped up like a Christmas present, the straight jacket’s arms tied in a mocking bow. Her eyes flicker to his through the plume of red hair spilling across her face. Neither moves, speaks, or breathes. At last, the man breaks the silence:
“Mrs. Arnofsky, it’s time to go through the review again.”
“They’re not going to let me out. Why are you bothering me? Is it the money?” She laughs, her slender frame shaking.
“Mary, you’ve made some very good progress here, we can at least get your status dropped and you out of this wing and out of that jacket,” his voice calls out, almost convincing.
“This room is safe. This room is God.” Her eyes grow brighter and she continues, “and he thinks I’m just fine and dandy. Nope, nope. No review, no review.” A wide smile breaks out across her face.
“Mary, you have to listen to me, I’m telling-”
“Nope. Nope. Not anymore. I can deal with him from in here. I can be safe!”
“I’m telling you, we can get you moved to a lower ward and they will-”
“There’s no place for me down there in his reach. It won’t work. I’m staying!”
“Please will you just liste-”
“No. I’m not going to let him get at me again. Too many angels floating around…”
“Please,” his eyes begged her to regain her balance.
“Hope is all I have. I’m not going back. Not gonna be there again. Not gonna do it.”
She continues to babble on, her eyes dart across the ceiling in fear.
Monday, April 20, 2009
On grain and earth, rain and air...
Geese don't give a fuck about the rain.
Gray morning skies dropping water down on the fresh and vibrant spring grass and he keeps on stomping his webbed feet down on the mucky ground picking away at the grass for the scraps of our waste and his morning meal.
Almost freezing out there and he still stomps on, nibbling and plucking, not giving two shits about the cold, cold rain sliding off his back or pooling between his wings. He's got a job to do and he's doing it well.
There's no flock or commune or gathering or gander, there's only him and his mission of getting his next meal, rain or no rain. He's got a purpose and he's sticking to it.
And the rain keeps coming down, all of us two legged abominations walking around, huddled under the cover of his father and his mother, their lives stuffed between our polyvinyl, keeping out the wind and the cold. They didn't give a fuck about the rain either.
I can see large spots of water pooling on his back and I think 'who cares about ducks?'. Little monogamous critters, always knowing which direction to flit off to if it gets to cold. The wind is stinging like a whip to the cheek today, but I don't see this goose flapping off to chase a warmer climate. Screw water off a duck's back. They hide in the rain.
This guy though, there's some determination in those eyes. Geese are evil bastards, but I can see why, being out in the rain since before the sun came up trying to fill his gullet on fries and bugs and worms and grasshoppers. But rest assured, he don't give a fuck about the rain.
If only we could take a page from his book.
Gray morning skies dropping water down on the fresh and vibrant spring grass and he keeps on stomping his webbed feet down on the mucky ground picking away at the grass for the scraps of our waste and his morning meal.
Almost freezing out there and he still stomps on, nibbling and plucking, not giving two shits about the cold, cold rain sliding off his back or pooling between his wings. He's got a job to do and he's doing it well.
There's no flock or commune or gathering or gander, there's only him and his mission of getting his next meal, rain or no rain. He's got a purpose and he's sticking to it.
And the rain keeps coming down, all of us two legged abominations walking around, huddled under the cover of his father and his mother, their lives stuffed between our polyvinyl, keeping out the wind and the cold. They didn't give a fuck about the rain either.
I can see large spots of water pooling on his back and I think 'who cares about ducks?'. Little monogamous critters, always knowing which direction to flit off to if it gets to cold. The wind is stinging like a whip to the cheek today, but I don't see this goose flapping off to chase a warmer climate. Screw water off a duck's back. They hide in the rain.
This guy though, there's some determination in those eyes. Geese are evil bastards, but I can see why, being out in the rain since before the sun came up trying to fill his gullet on fries and bugs and worms and grasshoppers. But rest assured, he don't give a fuck about the rain.
If only we could take a page from his book.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Smother another failure...
((
))
R: So, another writing assignment. We'll see how this one goes.
F: The door warped with the force of the assault from the interior. A small dent appeared on the outside in the shape of a human fist. Another thud rang out followed with the soft whine of the steel of the door stretching to form. Another thud rang out and this time the door swung open wide, bathing the rooftop in fluorescent lighting and the scream of sirens. Three figures dressed in full body suits rushed out of the exit and began to make their way across the rooftop, making sure to look over their shoulders to see if they had been caught yet. The pitter-patter of soft soled shoes echoed across the concrete rooftops and shot off into the night sky. Stray bits of debris skittered away from each footfall as the three sprinted across the open area. As they sped past an open skylight, the crimson goggles they each wore glared briefly. Muscles outlined by the neoprene bodysuits flexed and relaxed with each long stride, seeming to flow with the ease of water in a small stream, but could not belie the urgency of the dashing figures. They approached the far edge of the high rise, lined off with a retaining wall highlighted with luminescent yellow paint. But they dared not stop there, so far above the deserted streets below. Feet found their way atop the safety wall in midstride, and then the rush of hidden hydraulics fired from below the layer of foam rubber.
Each figure launched their bodies out into the crisp night air, arms rigid against their sides as they rocketed towards the opposing rooftop. They lowered their chins at the approach and crossed their arms above their heads, rolling on the moment of impact and were back on their feet almost as quickly as they had touched. The three continued the ballet of foolishness across the city. This newfound technology was much more than any of the three had expected when they had uncovered its development. Each new rooftop was regarded with as much thought as each flower passed by while on a drive: it is acknowledged but never noticed. A line was cut through the city, the streets below opening up as if the mouths of voracious beasts, gaping wide as the trio passed overhead, hoping a mistake would be made and a meal would be granted. But their feet worked as precision machines, matching each step with an unnerving balance, disregarding any obstacle in their path. Should the next roof be too high to descend to, they leapt anyways, catching hold on unseen nooks and crannies, and propelling their bodies to the top as deftly as spiders.
The group eventually lighted upon another unremarkable rooftop, huddling together behind a large air conditioning unit, seemingly unfazed by the cacophony of the machine as it shot cool, stale air into the building below. They turned to each other, their round, red eyes glittering with each movement. An unheard conversation carried on as their unseen eyes met and untold plans were made. Hands were shook as they rose, each turning casually to take in the eerie sight of the city, its dead lights beckoning to no one in particular. Swaying lazily, they walked to the north side of the building, hands placed carelessly on the familiar concrete partition. The sound of smaller hydraulic locks careened off the buildings across the street, and the shortest of the three removed the facemask of its suit. A soft sigh was let out as the breeze from the street carried up the smell of dust to the nostrils that had been trapped behind the filters and instruments integrated into the bodice. A young, beautiful face appeared as the hand pulled the mask down. Her light skin stood out in stark contrast to the grey concrete surroundings to the weathered concrete that the entire city seemed to be molded from. The suit framed her face as if it were a picture too large for a locket, a small white oval of beauty. Her face softened for a moment and seemed completely detached and out of place. She took in a long, lasting breath, and breathed out, a small smile spreading from her lips, across her cheeks, but never quite making it to the darkness of her eyes.
Over the rushing sound of the air conditioning unit, a steady, hammering bass tone came to be heard. Louder and louder, the rhythmic throbbing began to resonate in their chests. The face disappeared back under the featureless mask and the three began to run towards the south edge of the building with a terrified urgency. However, there would be no muscles relaxing in their stride on this part of their trek. As they closed in on their escape route, the spotlight crested the edge of the roof, the red eyes of their goggles shifting instantaneously to black. The black helicopter swooped up as if a hawk, nondescript aside from the white block lettering that spelled out U.S. D.I.A. The speakers of the helicopter rang out with orders of submission, accusations of treason and the threat of death.
The three scattered across the rooftop, each rushing off in a different direction. As she was about to vault from the roof, she chanced a look over her shoulder, only to see one of her group explode from the gunfire, the gun on the front of the helicopter screaming and casting the rooftop in a bright shade of yellow and a mist of red. She found her eyes locked onto the shredded body, hanging in the air as if pinned up by a sadistic hand. The chin of her mask stretched down frantically, but no scream could escape into the night. The side of the building swallowed up her vision and the realization dawned on her moments too late that her muscles had locked in fear. She clawed and scraped against the concrete that rushed above her head, and fought against the force pulling her down to the silent, unoccupied street.
))
R: So, another writing assignment. We'll see how this one goes.
F: The door warped with the force of the assault from the interior. A small dent appeared on the outside in the shape of a human fist. Another thud rang out followed with the soft whine of the steel of the door stretching to form. Another thud rang out and this time the door swung open wide, bathing the rooftop in fluorescent lighting and the scream of sirens. Three figures dressed in full body suits rushed out of the exit and began to make their way across the rooftop, making sure to look over their shoulders to see if they had been caught yet. The pitter-patter of soft soled shoes echoed across the concrete rooftops and shot off into the night sky. Stray bits of debris skittered away from each footfall as the three sprinted across the open area. As they sped past an open skylight, the crimson goggles they each wore glared briefly. Muscles outlined by the neoprene bodysuits flexed and relaxed with each long stride, seeming to flow with the ease of water in a small stream, but could not belie the urgency of the dashing figures. They approached the far edge of the high rise, lined off with a retaining wall highlighted with luminescent yellow paint. But they dared not stop there, so far above the deserted streets below. Feet found their way atop the safety wall in midstride, and then the rush of hidden hydraulics fired from below the layer of foam rubber.
Each figure launched their bodies out into the crisp night air, arms rigid against their sides as they rocketed towards the opposing rooftop. They lowered their chins at the approach and crossed their arms above their heads, rolling on the moment of impact and were back on their feet almost as quickly as they had touched. The three continued the ballet of foolishness across the city. This newfound technology was much more than any of the three had expected when they had uncovered its development. Each new rooftop was regarded with as much thought as each flower passed by while on a drive: it is acknowledged but never noticed. A line was cut through the city, the streets below opening up as if the mouths of voracious beasts, gaping wide as the trio passed overhead, hoping a mistake would be made and a meal would be granted. But their feet worked as precision machines, matching each step with an unnerving balance, disregarding any obstacle in their path. Should the next roof be too high to descend to, they leapt anyways, catching hold on unseen nooks and crannies, and propelling their bodies to the top as deftly as spiders.
The group eventually lighted upon another unremarkable rooftop, huddling together behind a large air conditioning unit, seemingly unfazed by the cacophony of the machine as it shot cool, stale air into the building below. They turned to each other, their round, red eyes glittering with each movement. An unheard conversation carried on as their unseen eyes met and untold plans were made. Hands were shook as they rose, each turning casually to take in the eerie sight of the city, its dead lights beckoning to no one in particular. Swaying lazily, they walked to the north side of the building, hands placed carelessly on the familiar concrete partition. The sound of smaller hydraulic locks careened off the buildings across the street, and the shortest of the three removed the facemask of its suit. A soft sigh was let out as the breeze from the street carried up the smell of dust to the nostrils that had been trapped behind the filters and instruments integrated into the bodice. A young, beautiful face appeared as the hand pulled the mask down. Her light skin stood out in stark contrast to the grey concrete surroundings to the weathered concrete that the entire city seemed to be molded from. The suit framed her face as if it were a picture too large for a locket, a small white oval of beauty. Her face softened for a moment and seemed completely detached and out of place. She took in a long, lasting breath, and breathed out, a small smile spreading from her lips, across her cheeks, but never quite making it to the darkness of her eyes.
Over the rushing sound of the air conditioning unit, a steady, hammering bass tone came to be heard. Louder and louder, the rhythmic throbbing began to resonate in their chests. The face disappeared back under the featureless mask and the three began to run towards the south edge of the building with a terrified urgency. However, there would be no muscles relaxing in their stride on this part of their trek. As they closed in on their escape route, the spotlight crested the edge of the roof, the red eyes of their goggles shifting instantaneously to black. The black helicopter swooped up as if a hawk, nondescript aside from the white block lettering that spelled out U.S. D.I.A. The speakers of the helicopter rang out with orders of submission, accusations of treason and the threat of death.
The three scattered across the rooftop, each rushing off in a different direction. As she was about to vault from the roof, she chanced a look over her shoulder, only to see one of her group explode from the gunfire, the gun on the front of the helicopter screaming and casting the rooftop in a bright shade of yellow and a mist of red. She found her eyes locked onto the shredded body, hanging in the air as if pinned up by a sadistic hand. The chin of her mask stretched down frantically, but no scream could escape into the night. The side of the building swallowed up her vision and the realization dawned on her moments too late that her muscles had locked in fear. She clawed and scraped against the concrete that rushed above her head, and fought against the force pulling her down to the silent, unoccupied street.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Let's run this shit into the ground!
((
))
R: So, short story writing. Not sure what to say about it. Character Development:
F: His hands were flat on the table, on either side of the manila envelope from her lawyer’s office, as if to grasp and strangle its contents should they move the wrong way. The chair that he had occupied was laying on its side a few steps away. His eyes were stuck on the opened flap of the envelope, and the exertion seemed to drown out any and all sound. The faucet continued to drip in spite of this, as it always did, the steady ‘thup…thup…thup’ of water droplets echoing inside the stainless steel basin. A small pool of water quivered under each impact, disturbing the ring of filth that had been pushed to the edges. He stood over the envelope for another minute, heart pulsing in time with the faucet, until he tore his eyes away and headed to fetch another cup from above the stove.
From the cabinets, his hands produced a small, crystal tumbler with gold filament blown into the glass. This was followed by a bottle of cooking brandy that he purchased the previous month. He set the glass down carefully and looked out of the window above the sink. He proceeded to tear the seal from the top of the bottle when his eyes began to drift across the linoleum floors, past the toppled chair, up a table leg, across the polished oak surface and finally resting on the envelope. His hands picked up their pace and the foil fell from the top of the bottle to the counter and bounced to the floor. Eyes locked on the envelope, he began to calmly twist the cork from the bottle. A small ‘pop’ cried out from his hands and his eyes swung back to the task at hand. A shoe crushed and crumpled the foil as he shifted to pour the liquor, not bothering to stop with a civil amount, keeping the bottle tilted until the amber liquid was lapping at the rim of the tumbler. The cork slid back into the bottle until the back was flush. His long fingers delicately raised the glass to his lips, and he took a small sip. His eyes closed and a half-smile flashed across his lips as he swallowed. A moment passed and he finally let himself breath in, the evaporating sensation that lay poised in the back of his nose and throat rushing down and filling him from the inside. A pleasant burning and a wave of calm radiated through his body, if only for a second.
‘Thup…thup...thup’. Eyelids fluttered open, and the glass was set back onto the counter. The glass clopped against the counter and brandy sloshed over the edge and onto his fingertips. He turned back to the stove and began to dry his hand on the white towel that hung on the oven door’s handle. He tossed the towel on top of the stove when he was finished and opened the cabinet again. His left hand disappeared to the back of the cabinet, his toes on end to give him a better view. There was a small clatter of bottles knocking against one another, and then his hand drew back out into the light with a small, red cardboard box grasped between thumb and forefinger. A shake of the box and the sound of small wooden sticks rattling inside was enough to bring the half-smile back to his face, no matter how fleeting its stay would be. Holding the box up in front of his face, nostrils flaring at the hint of sulfur, he began to trace his fingers against the light from the window over the ever leaky sink. The box was slipped into his pocket as he walked to the table. The envelope was whisked away and he exited the kitchen. A few moments later the front door could be heard opening and finally shut.
The kitchen was quiet again. There was coffee dripping down the wall opposite of the chair on the floor, some soaking into the drywall broken by the impact of the mug. Porcelain shards littered the tile below. A bitter aroma began to spread throughout the kitchen, permeating every nook and cranny, but had no nose to touch and no memories to evoke. The pool of water in the kitchen sink began to quiver with each added drop, until finally the last drop could no longer hold onto the lip of the faucet and plummeted. The tension broke, and the small pool began to slowly run out through the drain, the ring of dirt breaking and giving way to the liquid’s chosen path. Afterwards, the faucet continued to drip. ‘Thup…thup…thup’.
))
R: So, short story writing. Not sure what to say about it. Character Development:
F: His hands were flat on the table, on either side of the manila envelope from her lawyer’s office, as if to grasp and strangle its contents should they move the wrong way. The chair that he had occupied was laying on its side a few steps away. His eyes were stuck on the opened flap of the envelope, and the exertion seemed to drown out any and all sound. The faucet continued to drip in spite of this, as it always did, the steady ‘thup…thup…thup’ of water droplets echoing inside the stainless steel basin. A small pool of water quivered under each impact, disturbing the ring of filth that had been pushed to the edges. He stood over the envelope for another minute, heart pulsing in time with the faucet, until he tore his eyes away and headed to fetch another cup from above the stove.
From the cabinets, his hands produced a small, crystal tumbler with gold filament blown into the glass. This was followed by a bottle of cooking brandy that he purchased the previous month. He set the glass down carefully and looked out of the window above the sink. He proceeded to tear the seal from the top of the bottle when his eyes began to drift across the linoleum floors, past the toppled chair, up a table leg, across the polished oak surface and finally resting on the envelope. His hands picked up their pace and the foil fell from the top of the bottle to the counter and bounced to the floor. Eyes locked on the envelope, he began to calmly twist the cork from the bottle. A small ‘pop’ cried out from his hands and his eyes swung back to the task at hand. A shoe crushed and crumpled the foil as he shifted to pour the liquor, not bothering to stop with a civil amount, keeping the bottle tilted until the amber liquid was lapping at the rim of the tumbler. The cork slid back into the bottle until the back was flush. His long fingers delicately raised the glass to his lips, and he took a small sip. His eyes closed and a half-smile flashed across his lips as he swallowed. A moment passed and he finally let himself breath in, the evaporating sensation that lay poised in the back of his nose and throat rushing down and filling him from the inside. A pleasant burning and a wave of calm radiated through his body, if only for a second.
‘Thup…thup...thup’. Eyelids fluttered open, and the glass was set back onto the counter. The glass clopped against the counter and brandy sloshed over the edge and onto his fingertips. He turned back to the stove and began to dry his hand on the white towel that hung on the oven door’s handle. He tossed the towel on top of the stove when he was finished and opened the cabinet again. His left hand disappeared to the back of the cabinet, his toes on end to give him a better view. There was a small clatter of bottles knocking against one another, and then his hand drew back out into the light with a small, red cardboard box grasped between thumb and forefinger. A shake of the box and the sound of small wooden sticks rattling inside was enough to bring the half-smile back to his face, no matter how fleeting its stay would be. Holding the box up in front of his face, nostrils flaring at the hint of sulfur, he began to trace his fingers against the light from the window over the ever leaky sink. The box was slipped into his pocket as he walked to the table. The envelope was whisked away and he exited the kitchen. A few moments later the front door could be heard opening and finally shut.
The kitchen was quiet again. There was coffee dripping down the wall opposite of the chair on the floor, some soaking into the drywall broken by the impact of the mug. Porcelain shards littered the tile below. A bitter aroma began to spread throughout the kitchen, permeating every nook and cranny, but had no nose to touch and no memories to evoke. The pool of water in the kitchen sink began to quiver with each added drop, until finally the last drop could no longer hold onto the lip of the faucet and plummeted. The tension broke, and the small pool began to slowly run out through the drain, the ring of dirt breaking and giving way to the liquid’s chosen path. Afterwards, the faucet continued to drip. ‘Thup…thup…thup’.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Things have never been so swell...
IMPORTANT!!
((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PB5YcnsotZI))
IMPORTANT!!
So, to cut to the chase:
Now.
I think it's all getting to me, finally. It's almost staggering.
I've been a cynical person, always said the worst possible things about human beings as a species. But I always felt that down below there was something decent about them. That maybe we all just got a bad wrap. Maybe if we just chill, respect those in the community, try to help out and share a laugh here and there, there can be a balance, at least for a little while.
But now, I'm not so sure. I mean, seriously? Some rich fucker who flaunts everything they have, gabbing on and on about their prized possessions and whatnot, I could see a reason there. But that's still not an excuse. I've tried to be humble about my accomplishments, about the things I've earned and built. I never saw a reason to put them out there in people's faces. And I thought "maybe, just maybe, this is a saving grace."
Oy.
But it's gone, material items with sentimental values and old trinkets of what I used to be able to do and photos of friends and conversations and accumulated knowledge. But, I'm smarter now, and the loss will be prevented, at least on the level of data.
Chaps my ass.
Am I a violent person? I think I am. I search craigslist for my shit, I find a post title that seems like it's my items, and I shake. My heart starts to beat like it always did while sparring. I can feel everything course through my veins and slide into the center of my brain. Instant adrenaline rush.
But the action is stayed, and the pulsing eventually subsides.
Oh well. As long as it's controlled.
To those worried:
I am alright. Well, I will be alright. I'm a bit depressed, but I'm coping alright I think. I have my hat, my dog, my girlfriend and a few packs of cigarettes. Everything will be fine. I know some of you are worried to the point of exhaustion, but please, for my sake, relax a bit. I know I'm partially the baby of the family, but I am an adult, I think? I'm going to find a new place to live. I'm going to reinforce the god damn door with some metal. Eins and I and the remainder of my possessions are going to be fine. I am safe for now and am being cautious. I love each and every one of you, but please do accept that I'm going to be O.K.
There's nothing to fear. Just work to be done.
Thank you for all your help. I'd be worse off without it.
This won't be happening, sorry:
((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PB5YcnsotZI))
IMPORTANT!!
So, to cut to the chase:
Now.
I think it's all getting to me, finally. It's almost staggering.
I've been a cynical person, always said the worst possible things about human beings as a species. But I always felt that down below there was something decent about them. That maybe we all just got a bad wrap. Maybe if we just chill, respect those in the community, try to help out and share a laugh here and there, there can be a balance, at least for a little while.
But now, I'm not so sure. I mean, seriously? Some rich fucker who flaunts everything they have, gabbing on and on about their prized possessions and whatnot, I could see a reason there. But that's still not an excuse. I've tried to be humble about my accomplishments, about the things I've earned and built. I never saw a reason to put them out there in people's faces. And I thought "maybe, just maybe, this is a saving grace."
Oy.
But it's gone, material items with sentimental values and old trinkets of what I used to be able to do and photos of friends and conversations and accumulated knowledge. But, I'm smarter now, and the loss will be prevented, at least on the level of data.
Chaps my ass.
Am I a violent person? I think I am. I search craigslist for my shit, I find a post title that seems like it's my items, and I shake. My heart starts to beat like it always did while sparring. I can feel everything course through my veins and slide into the center of my brain. Instant adrenaline rush.
But the action is stayed, and the pulsing eventually subsides.
Oh well. As long as it's controlled.
To those worried:
I am alright. Well, I will be alright. I'm a bit depressed, but I'm coping alright I think. I have my hat, my dog, my girlfriend and a few packs of cigarettes. Everything will be fine. I know some of you are worried to the point of exhaustion, but please, for my sake, relax a bit. I know I'm partially the baby of the family, but I am an adult, I think? I'm going to find a new place to live. I'm going to reinforce the god damn door with some metal. Eins and I and the remainder of my possessions are going to be fine. I am safe for now and am being cautious. I love each and every one of you, but please do accept that I'm going to be O.K.
There's nothing to fear. Just work to be done.
Thank you for all your help. I'd be worse off without it.
This won't be happening, sorry:
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