nonsensical
2008-11-06, 03:11
A story, that I've been trying to create, but it bothers me.
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A mutant hydra screeched at the door. The cat’s fur wriggled and breathed, the leeches pulsed among brown and white patches, leaving a red dotted pattern. Edmund pushed this beast away with his foot when it tried to dash inside. “Sorry, cat,” he muttered. “I can’t have you inside. The mess is all ready overwhelming.” He left a bowl of milk out. Cats survived, but he doubted his own strength.
Every room in the apartment was still. Papers and books mixed with unopened soda cans and dust. The blinds were always down, and in the afternoon a dim haze spread through, and nothing moved. He jumped from one island to another…a bed, a couch, a chair, and disturbed nothing else. There was no energy to clean, to move. Edmund wanted to start over.
He drew rough caterpillars on his arm, waiting for the morphine take away his worries. The little insects were obese and drooling. They forgot how to make cocoons, and just kept getting fatter, without changing. Their segments burst, and all of their organs rotted in space.
One cigarette, two cigarettes…and Edmund ran to the bathroom, nauseous. The taste of vitamins lingered in his throat, and he spit out warm saliva, one horde to replace another, wondering when vomit would appear, hoping the morphine had a chance to absorb. Nothing happened, except for worrying thoughts, strange guilt, morphine stolen from his friend, a sly attack on their relationship.
The euphoria bloomed, rising from his stomach and clawing into his neck, playing around in his head, all over his itchy skin. He sent a message to Jacqueline. “Vitamin fluorescence. I’m pissing sunshine,” and after that, he had no plans.
He picked up an old mirror he found in a thrift store. It clacked against the pewter frame, threatening to escape. He painted black marks in chaotic patterns on the glass, watching the shapes change. Each stroke pushed a more detailed picture into existence…a black dragon hid his lips, a black mask appeared. He continued with the confidence of a thief in disguise, but the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his humanity. When Edmund shook hands with new people, he left behind hollow exoskeletons in their palms. Those shells never bit, but an uneasy feeling suffocated their hosts. Instinct and irrational fears made them wipe their hands. Acquaintances quickly erased the memory of the plastic phantom.
Swirls and patches piled together on the glass, but now they threatened his entire reflection. His face sunk into this lake in the night. Invisible waves churned without light, but they could only be thought of, not seen. Edmund had grown into a nocturnal ghost, living at night and hiding his sensitive eyes from the sun. His family and friends cautioned that his depression would grow and join hands with insanity, but he preferred the night. Instead of viewing the waves and the lake, he imagined them. His touch and paranoia heightened, and he bathed in the portraits painted by his imagination, instead of with his retina.
Noises came from monsters, secret lovers…waves grew faces and danced. The pictures in his mind were beautiful, daring. He preferred this inner vision, and when he moved in daylight, disappointment always trumped beauty.
A spasm shook the mirror, and it smashed into the floor.
The morphine was gone, desperation exploded, and darkness crept into the future. Edmund’s furious thoughts turned into themselves, stabbing and pushing. He wanted to cry or scream, but forgot how. He took his cigarettes and confronted a strange watchmen, staring at him, refusing to look away. Anger came, and Edmund attacked the pervert, slamming his fingers into the keys. He needed action. Shattered nerves, his eyes were wide, and the piano transformed. The cheap wood cracked and shifted. This new desk for creation and design attached itself to the plaster walls. It breathed in heavy, quick thrusts. The keys aged and yellowed, and arranged themselves into a protective moat. A trapdoor popped open, and Edmund ran inside, to a hidden room. The real mechanism lived inside, and he found a rectangular pool, swimming with slivers of bone. He pressed them and the world shook. Pistons started pumping, throwing blue and yellow light on the walls. An engine roared far away, smoke blew from holes.
The pedals looped around his feet, taking him by force, but Edmund accepted their touch. The frenzy increased…an asymmetrical kingdom was growing from his fingers, and he had to play faster, or else he would fall off the throbbing monster. He wanted the challenge…can’t eat me, I’ll play you down, he scratched into the surface, let me crawl all over your body.
He touched those keys, and the music grew darker, and so did the lights. It’s sensuality so great, violence and crashing rooftops. The hidden keys unlocked great doors…it was leather, it was great sex…it was a dark basement room, all alone. Work, freedom, anyway, anywhere. He left unsatisfied.
-----
A mutant hydra screeched at the door. The cat’s fur wriggled and breathed, the leeches pulsed among brown and white patches, leaving a red dotted pattern. Edmund pushed this beast away with his foot when it tried to dash inside. “Sorry, cat,” he muttered. “I can’t have you inside. The mess is all ready overwhelming.” He left a bowl of milk out. Cats survived, but he doubted his own strength.
Every room in the apartment was still. Papers and books mixed with unopened soda cans and dust. The blinds were always down, and in the afternoon a dim haze spread through, and nothing moved. He jumped from one island to another…a bed, a couch, a chair, and disturbed nothing else. There was no energy to clean, to move. Edmund wanted to start over.
He drew rough caterpillars on his arm, waiting for the morphine take away his worries. The little insects were obese and drooling. They forgot how to make cocoons, and just kept getting fatter, without changing. Their segments burst, and all of their organs rotted in space.
One cigarette, two cigarettes…and Edmund ran to the bathroom, nauseous. The taste of vitamins lingered in his throat, and he spit out warm saliva, one horde to replace another, wondering when vomit would appear, hoping the morphine had a chance to absorb. Nothing happened, except for worrying thoughts, strange guilt, morphine stolen from his friend, a sly attack on their relationship.
The euphoria bloomed, rising from his stomach and clawing into his neck, playing around in his head, all over his itchy skin. He sent a message to Jacqueline. “Vitamin fluorescence. I’m pissing sunshine,” and after that, he had no plans.
He picked up an old mirror he found in a thrift store. It clacked against the pewter frame, threatening to escape. He painted black marks in chaotic patterns on the glass, watching the shapes change. Each stroke pushed a more detailed picture into existence…a black dragon hid his lips, a black mask appeared. He continued with the confidence of a thief in disguise, but the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his humanity. When Edmund shook hands with new people, he left behind hollow exoskeletons in their palms. Those shells never bit, but an uneasy feeling suffocated their hosts. Instinct and irrational fears made them wipe their hands. Acquaintances quickly erased the memory of the plastic phantom.
Swirls and patches piled together on the glass, but now they threatened his entire reflection. His face sunk into this lake in the night. Invisible waves churned without light, but they could only be thought of, not seen. Edmund had grown into a nocturnal ghost, living at night and hiding his sensitive eyes from the sun. His family and friends cautioned that his depression would grow and join hands with insanity, but he preferred the night. Instead of viewing the waves and the lake, he imagined them. His touch and paranoia heightened, and he bathed in the portraits painted by his imagination, instead of with his retina.
Noises came from monsters, secret lovers…waves grew faces and danced. The pictures in his mind were beautiful, daring. He preferred this inner vision, and when he moved in daylight, disappointment always trumped beauty.
A spasm shook the mirror, and it smashed into the floor.
The morphine was gone, desperation exploded, and darkness crept into the future. Edmund’s furious thoughts turned into themselves, stabbing and pushing. He wanted to cry or scream, but forgot how. He took his cigarettes and confronted a strange watchmen, staring at him, refusing to look away. Anger came, and Edmund attacked the pervert, slamming his fingers into the keys. He needed action. Shattered nerves, his eyes were wide, and the piano transformed. The cheap wood cracked and shifted. This new desk for creation and design attached itself to the plaster walls. It breathed in heavy, quick thrusts. The keys aged and yellowed, and arranged themselves into a protective moat. A trapdoor popped open, and Edmund ran inside, to a hidden room. The real mechanism lived inside, and he found a rectangular pool, swimming with slivers of bone. He pressed them and the world shook. Pistons started pumping, throwing blue and yellow light on the walls. An engine roared far away, smoke blew from holes.
The pedals looped around his feet, taking him by force, but Edmund accepted their touch. The frenzy increased…an asymmetrical kingdom was growing from his fingers, and he had to play faster, or else he would fall off the throbbing monster. He wanted the challenge…can’t eat me, I’ll play you down, he scratched into the surface, let me crawl all over your body.
He touched those keys, and the music grew darker, and so did the lights. It’s sensuality so great, violence and crashing rooftops. The hidden keys unlocked great doors…it was leather, it was great sex…it was a dark basement room, all alone. Work, freedom, anyway, anywhere. He left unsatisfied.