chaptering one
4:50 am. Rain has begun its routine pitter-patter, shrouding the sound of the distant horns and sirens of an ambulance, it seems. Dreams are beginning to fade, the lucidity dissolved into the attrition of noise. Noise is what puts me to sleep, noise is what keeps me awake. Ethan: the narcoleptic insomniac.
The alarm sounds – a feisty mosquito exploring my cavernous ears. I rub my eyes with the butt of my palms. Fluids swirl into dark violet patterns in my retinas, just like the kaleidoscope my grandmother used to let me look through.
I can hear the telephone ring in the other room. Sanji the telemarketer with his elaborate survey on the quality of my home can wait. I crave aspirin.
Why is my heart beating in my head?
The thunder taunts me. Like I’m a small dog trapped in a subwoofer, at a metal concert, wearing canine hearing aids (if those exist). My window shades slant creating the perfect ambient placement of light. Darkness striped with purple-blue lines. This would make a good photograph I mentally note. Too bad my Nikon had to be stolen in Hong Kong. Who knows where it could be now, probably sold for a few hundred grams of meth. Never mind that. Just walk to the fridge.
I walk to the fridge. Nothing but mistakenly bought “sweet” pickles (preserved or not, they taste absolutely rancid) and a questionable carton of milk. I chug the questionable carton. Fortunately it still seems to be in liquid state. Unfortunately it tastes like the sweet pickles. Maybe the two made passionate love in my absence. Love: my best friend and worst enemy. I have succumbed to its venomous trance for far too long - been poisoned with its curse – the cancer in my concentration, in my thoughts. I still think about her. Goddamn is there no antidote for this? The bomb in my head is starting to tingle...
Where did the bloody tap go? I find it and drink three cups full. Lukewarm – but, nevertheless, still refreshing.
The room blinks bright. The veins on my forehead throb in fear at the nefarious raging lightning. Two hours before work.. Why did I get up so early? I unconsciously grab the flipper and turn the television in the living room on.
CHANNEL 2: “god Beth, look I’ve got to go in two hours! Yeah boss wants me in nice and earl-“
Nothing good is ever on first time you turn this damn thing on. I button higher.
CHANNEL 17: “Marnel’s Sweet Pickles! They are dillllllllicious!”
If you have a paralyzed tongue maybe. Flip.
CHANNEL 34: “Pounding headache? Tired but can’t get any sleep? Constipated? You need RELAXITIVE! With just 3 easy payments of 4-“
Flip Off.
Huh. Are the TV stations monitoring my thoughts or what? Why is the media so psychically coincidental? Who knows? The telephone kicks the living shit out of my eardrums.
***************************
That there is the start of my Magnum Opus for Writers Craft - still thinking of ideas, and lots of fixing needs to be done - but that's what I just wrote. I will probably do a chapter a night - so expect more very soon. Oh and leave your thoughts in the tagboard to ze right (insert emoticon wearing shades here).
The alarm sounds – a feisty mosquito exploring my cavernous ears. I rub my eyes with the butt of my palms. Fluids swirl into dark violet patterns in my retinas, just like the kaleidoscope my grandmother used to let me look through.
I can hear the telephone ring in the other room. Sanji the telemarketer with his elaborate survey on the quality of my home can wait. I crave aspirin.
Why is my heart beating in my head?
The thunder taunts me. Like I’m a small dog trapped in a subwoofer, at a metal concert, wearing canine hearing aids (if those exist). My window shades slant creating the perfect ambient placement of light. Darkness striped with purple-blue lines. This would make a good photograph I mentally note. Too bad my Nikon had to be stolen in Hong Kong. Who knows where it could be now, probably sold for a few hundred grams of meth. Never mind that. Just walk to the fridge.
I walk to the fridge. Nothing but mistakenly bought “sweet” pickles (preserved or not, they taste absolutely rancid) and a questionable carton of milk. I chug the questionable carton. Fortunately it still seems to be in liquid state. Unfortunately it tastes like the sweet pickles. Maybe the two made passionate love in my absence. Love: my best friend and worst enemy. I have succumbed to its venomous trance for far too long - been poisoned with its curse – the cancer in my concentration, in my thoughts. I still think about her. Goddamn is there no antidote for this? The bomb in my head is starting to tingle...
Where did the bloody tap go? I find it and drink three cups full. Lukewarm – but, nevertheless, still refreshing.
The room blinks bright. The veins on my forehead throb in fear at the nefarious raging lightning. Two hours before work.. Why did I get up so early? I unconsciously grab the flipper and turn the television in the living room on.
CHANNEL 2: “god Beth, look I’ve got to go in two hours! Yeah boss wants me in nice and earl-“
Nothing good is ever on first time you turn this damn thing on. I button higher.
CHANNEL 17: “Marnel’s Sweet Pickles! They are dillllllllicious!”
If you have a paralyzed tongue maybe. Flip.
CHANNEL 34: “Pounding headache? Tired but can’t get any sleep? Constipated? You need RELAXITIVE! With just 3 easy payments of 4-“
Flip Off.
Huh. Are the TV stations monitoring my thoughts or what? Why is the media so psychically coincidental? Who knows? The telephone kicks the living shit out of my eardrums.
***************************
That there is the start of my Magnum Opus for Writers Craft - still thinking of ideas, and lots of fixing needs to be done - but that's what I just wrote. I will probably do a chapter a night - so expect more very soon. Oh and leave your thoughts in the tagboard to ze right (insert emoticon wearing shades here).
posted by J-kash at 3:07 PM
1 Comments:
THIS STORY WAS SOO GOOD I SHAT MY PANTS!
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