stories

Prologue

The following book will talk about: love, life, relationships, children, suffering of said children, atonement, peace, a vacation, a return from a vacation and some science. Not necessarily in that order. Not necessarily at all, explicit, implicit, or with reasonable coherent meaning. The pressure to write is a wild old horse, and distillation of thoughts would perhaps grow possible during the day.

So, the introduction to the story. The protaganist of the story is a guy, who does not really belong much anywhere. Easy to fake belonging, of course, easy to pick up a dialect or slang, to mix dangerous vernacular with dangerous High English. Dangerous, to not to appear to be who you are, because there are things out there who don’t really like to see- with their sole grimy eye- directions being flaunted.

———————-

Johny wakes up, 9:30 am. The dawn of a day, not necessarily new. Sunlight struggles against the window grime, and barely manages to fit a finger through. The Light’s getting fat, Johny thought. Needs to lose some weight. Darkness, sly and thin as always, smirks from the closet corner.

Johny rolls, stretches, flings off his bed sheets with an unceremonial show. His actions as he dresses are tight, tense, a little angry, a little reckless. Johny is twenty one, and today is his birthday.

How to spend the first day of your death? Decide. Between staying at home, living in Schrodinger’s damn box, more dead than alive, eating the last box of cereal, the last piece of lettuce and ham (the cheese had been out for a week) …..or to walk out into the glaring light of day, and have to deal with the shit that he stayed inside to get away from. Decisions, decisions. The soul has unpredictable wit (otherwise, how dull life would be! but it likes to change things up, sometimes to the surprise of its owner, sometimes not)- and today Johny’s Soul was feeling rather feline-like: it wanted a good long stretch in the grass outside, and scratch something with its claws. Images of scarlet drops on verdant lawn appeared in Johny’s mind. He frowned.

How people eat their food is often indicative of their current inner state. Johny ground his lettuce and ham sandwhich to a pulp, taking special care to drag the top molar against the bottom as long as it would last.

And there would be groaning and gnashing of teeth in the darkness..

John, Johny long-john. Today is your day, and how nervously anxious you are already to meet it! A lot can happen in 24 hours, my, don’t bounce off your toes already. Keep some of that energy alive, because the sad truth of the human life
is that not everything goes on forever. Not even on your birthday

John walked back to his cramped room to put on some pants. For some reason, he found himself carrying the butter knife back with him. His eyes take a special second to run down the length of its blade, dip into the nick halfway from the top (from the last time he flung it at the window) and climb back up. He enjoys the almost tangible feel of sharpness, and slowly runs his finger down the side. There was an edge to the air, as Johny wrapped the knife in paper napkins and decided to slip it for some odd reason into his back pocket.

The front door opened with a groan of protest. It’s been days since anyone has disturbed it from its rest, where it finally fell asleep against the misshapen frame, swollen from years of neglect and rainwater. Johny kicked the door open. In the morning light, he saw particles of dust dancing in the air, almost twisting into a shape..a hand? a fist! —

but a spider shimmied down on a string of web, and clutched greedily at the mess. Johny shuddered, and quickly looked around for a wad of paper. Ever since last November, when he woke up feeling something itchy dancing across his eyelid, he has been unable to stand the sight of eight legs. “Unnatural abomination,” he thought as he shuddered once again, and reached back to introduce his unfortunately legged friendĀ  to the European couch series from Ikea’s Weekly Deal.

There were no survivors.

——————-

The spider was not just every spider. It had seen its share of history over the past few years that it spent at Residence 52’s top door frame, behind a crease whose plaster had peeled off to leave a comfortable abode. Here, in the corner, it stored its dishes; (the silverware laid safe behind the lint in the back); to be taken out only on fortuitous days [today was not one of them], when it managed to land a special delicacy. A Spanish fourlegged, perhaps, maybe God-forbid, a radish horse-fly! That would be feast enough for a week and a half. Its fanciful imagination can be excused on the grounds of starvation; for a whole week, the catch had been insubstantial. It has been forced to revisit leftovers in the fridge-web, and now even those were gone. Who could blame it when the frustrating insoluble mass imprisoning it on the wrong side of food suddenly opened again. Timmy leapt down with all of the excitement of a convict’s new found freedom…and
left his intestines decorating a new shade on the mahogany armchair.

What’s that? The death of one small spider is insignificant? In most scenarios, perhaps, but as the dust swirled around this new glossy intruder, Timmy the spider had his last revenge.

Advertisements
Standard