Post by Parchandri on Apr 17, 2008 23:20:46 GMT -5
I wrote this not too long ago. It's my first story, and I'd like to continue writing. I just wanted to get some input on it.
As I sit reclined on the black leather couch, the stench of leather and window cleaner is all that occupies my mind. I listen to a muffled voice but can't stop myself from counting each miniature chasm in the ceiling staring back at me. If I look to my left I'll see a frame with a degree from Harvard occupying the residence of the glass window, but I choose not to look because it only makes me think less of myself.
I quickly interrupt the continuous voice when a thought barges into my mind. I begin to spew my thoughts from my mouth, "I've been having these dreams where I'm in a grocery store looking for Power Bars, I have no idea why, I don't even like Power Bars." I say confused. "Anyways I always run into a short stocky woman with short black hair styled into a mullet." I explain. "Then I proceed to ask where one might find the power bars? As if rehearsed a million times for this moment the stocky woman always replies by saying, down isle ten on your left."
I continue my story with enthusiasm, "here's where things get strange, my body always turns to head toward the isle but only my head goes! Yep, that's right, my head plops on the floor with a sickening thud followed by repeated plopping as my head rolls away from my body toward the power bars. My head eventually rolls into the display featuring a cardboard cutout of Bill Cosby displaying a Power Bar like he's on The Price is Right. Then I wake up but never before I notice they're all out of chocolate peanut butter flavor!"
The voice continues on with a tone of reason and concern. I reposition myself so I'm further relaxed into the couch, I become amused by the unpleasant noise the leather makes as I readjust myself. 152, 153, 154, I continue my project in progress. As I continue to count, 155, 156, I wait for the next thought to enter my head that might help me get "back on the fast track to recovery" as they say.
"RED! RED!" I say excitedly jolting up. The sound of the couch makes me embarrassedly look down, and I lay back into my previous position as easy as possible. "Red." I continue as I adjust my suit jacket. "Just recently I had this uncontrollable urge to paint the walls of my apartment red." I said eagerly as if looking for an answer. "I remember grabbing a can of red paint in almost a panic and blacked out. When I woke up everywhere I looked was red, I even managed to paint my fridge and everything inside of it. You could imagine this whole episode presents a big problem. How am I suppose to know which bottle is ketchup and which is salad dressing?"
The air around me is still and the room feels empty accompanied by silence. I wait for an answer, a sign, any sort of diagnoses from a stranger that's suppose to be so much better than I am. Someone who is trained to know anyone and everyone. As I wait in the deafening silence my head begins to ramble as soon as my so called savior begins to speak, possibly ruining any chance of salvation I might have had. 173, 174, 175, the counting continues. I start to picture myself jumping into each miniature crater as I continue to count them one by one. I hope that each leap leads me cascading down a pit of unending freedom and exemption from natural life, 192, 193, 194.
"Just last week I tried to sabotage the local burger joint." I say interrupting the counting, the voice, the salvation. "It started out innocent enough, I was bored out of my mind, and I'm not talking normal boredom. I'm talking the mind racing, psychotic inducing, I'd rather die type of boredom." I explained with my eyes bulging. "So I got this idea to entertain myself, very innocent, right? I was at work photocopying some documents about a patient and I heard that familiar jingle in my pocket." I exclaim innocently. "So I reached into my pocket and plucked out a quarter and centered it in the machine and made 40 copies. I spent the next two hours cutting each quarter out to perfection until I had 40 perfect paper quarters. I grabbed the stack of counterfeit quarters and went on my way."
"I arrived at Burger Town with my stack of quarters in hand and made the quick jaunt to the counter. I slammed the change on the counter and waited for the pimply teenager to notice my hot off the press fortune as I began to order a cuisine made of processed meats and lard." I continue further. "The boy picked up the paper quarters and informed me politely that they can't accept these." "I remember looking around for a moment and then back at the boy in the paper hat--I got you good, bitch! Well, one police escort and a shot of Jack Daniels later, I was back at my home painting my walls. I just don't understand! If I did anything, I gave them something to talk about, something they can go home and tell everyone about as if their life is suddenly more interesting than everyone else's."
Almost pleading I go on, "I don't have a clue why I would ever do something like that, it's nothing like me. It's almost like I forget I'm doing these things, or having these episodes as you would call it. My brain is telling me no but it doesn't matter, I do what I want when I want anyways."
201, 202, 203, what could all this mean? When did it all start? I can't be crazy. This has to be some kind of post traumatic syndrome. Yes, that's it! But what have I lost? 221, 222, 223, my dog Benny when I was ten years old, yeah that must be it! I'm having repressed anger and sadness manifesting itself through dreams and what experts call episodes. I'm saved!
The door to the office swings open and startles me. "Your ten o'clock is here Dr. Sturges, shall I send them in?" The blond, bubble gum chewing woman says. Her name tag reads Sheryl and denotes her as a secretary.
I let out a sigh and answered, "yeah, send them in, I'm ready."
As I sit reclined on the black leather couch, the stench of leather and window cleaner is all that occupies my mind. I listen to a muffled voice but can't stop myself from counting each miniature chasm in the ceiling staring back at me. If I look to my left I'll see a frame with a degree from Harvard occupying the residence of the glass window, but I choose not to look because it only makes me think less of myself.
I quickly interrupt the continuous voice when a thought barges into my mind. I begin to spew my thoughts from my mouth, "I've been having these dreams where I'm in a grocery store looking for Power Bars, I have no idea why, I don't even like Power Bars." I say confused. "Anyways I always run into a short stocky woman with short black hair styled into a mullet." I explain. "Then I proceed to ask where one might find the power bars? As if rehearsed a million times for this moment the stocky woman always replies by saying, down isle ten on your left."
I continue my story with enthusiasm, "here's where things get strange, my body always turns to head toward the isle but only my head goes! Yep, that's right, my head plops on the floor with a sickening thud followed by repeated plopping as my head rolls away from my body toward the power bars. My head eventually rolls into the display featuring a cardboard cutout of Bill Cosby displaying a Power Bar like he's on The Price is Right. Then I wake up but never before I notice they're all out of chocolate peanut butter flavor!"
The voice continues on with a tone of reason and concern. I reposition myself so I'm further relaxed into the couch, I become amused by the unpleasant noise the leather makes as I readjust myself. 152, 153, 154, I continue my project in progress. As I continue to count, 155, 156, I wait for the next thought to enter my head that might help me get "back on the fast track to recovery" as they say.
"RED! RED!" I say excitedly jolting up. The sound of the couch makes me embarrassedly look down, and I lay back into my previous position as easy as possible. "Red." I continue as I adjust my suit jacket. "Just recently I had this uncontrollable urge to paint the walls of my apartment red." I said eagerly as if looking for an answer. "I remember grabbing a can of red paint in almost a panic and blacked out. When I woke up everywhere I looked was red, I even managed to paint my fridge and everything inside of it. You could imagine this whole episode presents a big problem. How am I suppose to know which bottle is ketchup and which is salad dressing?"
The air around me is still and the room feels empty accompanied by silence. I wait for an answer, a sign, any sort of diagnoses from a stranger that's suppose to be so much better than I am. Someone who is trained to know anyone and everyone. As I wait in the deafening silence my head begins to ramble as soon as my so called savior begins to speak, possibly ruining any chance of salvation I might have had. 173, 174, 175, the counting continues. I start to picture myself jumping into each miniature crater as I continue to count them one by one. I hope that each leap leads me cascading down a pit of unending freedom and exemption from natural life, 192, 193, 194.
"Just last week I tried to sabotage the local burger joint." I say interrupting the counting, the voice, the salvation. "It started out innocent enough, I was bored out of my mind, and I'm not talking normal boredom. I'm talking the mind racing, psychotic inducing, I'd rather die type of boredom." I explained with my eyes bulging. "So I got this idea to entertain myself, very innocent, right? I was at work photocopying some documents about a patient and I heard that familiar jingle in my pocket." I exclaim innocently. "So I reached into my pocket and plucked out a quarter and centered it in the machine and made 40 copies. I spent the next two hours cutting each quarter out to perfection until I had 40 perfect paper quarters. I grabbed the stack of counterfeit quarters and went on my way."
"I arrived at Burger Town with my stack of quarters in hand and made the quick jaunt to the counter. I slammed the change on the counter and waited for the pimply teenager to notice my hot off the press fortune as I began to order a cuisine made of processed meats and lard." I continue further. "The boy picked up the paper quarters and informed me politely that they can't accept these." "I remember looking around for a moment and then back at the boy in the paper hat--I got you good, bitch! Well, one police escort and a shot of Jack Daniels later, I was back at my home painting my walls. I just don't understand! If I did anything, I gave them something to talk about, something they can go home and tell everyone about as if their life is suddenly more interesting than everyone else's."
Almost pleading I go on, "I don't have a clue why I would ever do something like that, it's nothing like me. It's almost like I forget I'm doing these things, or having these episodes as you would call it. My brain is telling me no but it doesn't matter, I do what I want when I want anyways."
201, 202, 203, what could all this mean? When did it all start? I can't be crazy. This has to be some kind of post traumatic syndrome. Yes, that's it! But what have I lost? 221, 222, 223, my dog Benny when I was ten years old, yeah that must be it! I'm having repressed anger and sadness manifesting itself through dreams and what experts call episodes. I'm saved!
The door to the office swings open and startles me. "Your ten o'clock is here Dr. Sturges, shall I send them in?" The blond, bubble gum chewing woman says. Her name tag reads Sheryl and denotes her as a secretary.
I let out a sigh and answered, "yeah, send them in, I'm ready."
