Nicotine Confidence
I feel as if I’m wondering through the halls of a daydream. This echoing, silent emptiness an alien sensation to my ears in this place. This place where sunlight sprinkles over specks of suspended dust, turning the air to glittering gold. Waving a hand through the doldrum air I send the particles into an erratic frenzy, whirling and twirling in confusion. They settle with a whisper as I perch on a sunny bench next to the courtyard, resting my back on he warm glass. My silhouette casts itself prostrate on the floor, a stretched and deformed lake if gray with hair forming a fuzzy halo. Turning my head, I mock the pose of the Holy Madonna, cradling the infant savior, gazing into his eyes the way a loving mother should.
The baby stares back, his eyes wide, watery, and dumb. I see no spark of specialness or wisdom - only averageness and absolute dependence. At this thought the baby coos and then shrieks, dissipating with a burst of air, driving the dust mad once more. I open and close my hands, checking to make sure no bits of baby Jesus were left behind. Again I turn to face my shadow, halo flickering with the breeze blowing in from an open window.
I stand on the bench, kicking out my legs in an exaggerated walk. (Oddness is a gift from the gods.) Thrusting my leg out waist high then letting it fall with a gargantuan clomp! The noise does not carry, it hits a barrier, falling dead to the floor in a mangled heap like a bird hitting a window. With briefness I frown but then move on as before along the bench. My plane of travel is not even, some sections lower and some higher than others. The supports beneath give a weary creak as I dance along, tired from bearing the weight of 40 years worth of students.
Closing my eyes I twirl along, fingers brushing the painted cinder block wall, creating a tornado of sunlight, dust, and magic from this empty dimension. Then I stop. My fingers have slipped into emptiness before curling around a corner. Experimentally I rock on my pivoted foot. I can feel the crease of the edge press into my sole. The Dancer has come to a fork in the music.
I turn myself into a weather vane, testing the winds to see which way I should go. My out-thrust leg turns left and right, left and right. I’m still indecisive. I throw the leg behind me into an arabesque. (Three years, two months, one week, four days, twenty-two hours, thirty-one minutes, and six seconds ago in the gym; one mile down Longstreet to the left on the balance beam in room sixteen that leant five degrees to the right and had a wobbly leg. The teacher was Mrs. Rubow, and there were nine other students. Sixty-percent had brow hair, twenty-five had blonde, and fifteen percent had black.) I breathe deeply, sniffing out the wisest path. There’s a strange taste on the current, like peanut bitter and sunflowers, so I follow.
I walk my tromping walk. Clodding, plodding (or any other stiff-jointed gait) along, following the smell a bit like magic. Magic smells like marzipan, magic is like marzipan; nutty and sweet, malleable, and simply composed. I keep my eyes closed. You cannot see magic, so why keep them open? The wall beneath my fingertips begins to tremble and tingle. Almost as quickly as it came it recedes.
The smell begins to change; stronger then weaker, bitter, then sweeter, and back again. The smell of something foreign invades may nostrils, something dank and damp like mildew with a hint of joy (which smells like a bowl of fresh lemons) beneath. I’m breathing like a fish, big gasping gulps as if I can’t get enough in my lungs, smell making me heady. The I trip, foot connecting with a rough foreign fabric. I catch my balance, lean over the object, and breathe deeply. It’s the lost thing, the thing of lemons and mildew. Opening my eyes I take it in. It’s a backpack.
Have you ever lost something so thoroughly that you never see it again? Well this is where they come to. This other place outside the window of Reality where you can’t enter but look in. You could almost say it’s a ghost world.
I take a wide detour around the bad, being careful to not leave the benches. Several paces later I turn around. It’s still sitting there. It’s doubtful that it will ever be claimed. I don’t want to touch it, it may pull me back. A hand rises to defend my nose against the offense and turn and hurry away from the past.
I move through the school in a hurry, eventually crouching by the catfish pond. I wonder who feeds them. How’d I get caught up in this long distance drama? It’s only a bag, only a bag that smells like lemons and mildew.
My legs extend as I stand, moving forward and back into my fanciful dance across the ugly tiled floor. Shadow is my partner and my feet strum the floor like a guitar. The taste of peanut butter is on my lips, a bit different but not completely.
I spin into the English hall. The music the floor makes here sounds like Chopin, light and flowing, full of variation. Before I was lost, this was my favorite hall.
I slip up to closed doors, peering in the tiny windows and watching the classes at work. In the mixing bowl I view roaming students in the reflection of the viewing case glass. All is average, all is normal, but I still smell peanut-butter and sunflowers.
Ten twenty-five; “I” should be in AP Calculus now. With a thrust-kick I renew the quest to Math hall. Here the floor is strict and reserved, everything precise like a waltz or a tango. The scent clicks in my head, it’s longing. Peanut-butter smells like longing or vice versa.
I continue to dance about with Shadow, but Shadow’s not very good at this kind of dancing. He’s too loose in the joints for the tango and instead winds up looking like a flopping ragdoll, clumsy and desperate. I try to correct his form but he inevitably returns to his double-jointed jumping. We both stop in perfect pirouettes before room 135, and lick our lips with desire. I look in the window to find the person that smells like sunflowers, caked in peanut-butter longing.
Her hair is a loose nutty brown, hiding her face. Downturned eyes are embedded with gems of green. Shadow peers in behind me, cool gray hands on my shoulders.
“What’re you doing in there?” he asks. I just continue to watch, nails digging in the fake wood frame of the window. As I step back the floor resounds with a powerful chord. I retreat back to my courtyard bench, going the long way so as to skirt the dank lost lemon bag, crouching like a tiger in the sun-square.
Down the hall a tromp echoes, spreading and filling the hall in a waxing-waning wave. It’s Reality, all trussed up in an Armani pinstripe with Gucci shoes. The cigarette peaking from between his thin lips adds a final touch of coolness, along with the slicked back auburn hair. His gate is easy and rolling, breathing confidence. I guess anyone would have that confidence though if they were the undeniable truth. He doesn’t offer me any acknowledgement greater than a glance. (Then again why should Reality address the Unreal?)
Behind him is the missing mob of the halls, ghostly voices empty and obedient with a hint of hollowness. Their transparent bodies crowd around me, chatting and babbling inanely. They can’t see past the cloth that’s been cast over them, but they still see me, the girl who sees past everything. Her name is Reflection.
He’s directly in front of me, not looking my way, and the gaggle behind him takes on a disturbing solidity, their voices, and noises culminating in a roar. The sound isn’t even overcome by the dead, flat sound of the bell. Out of the monotone Reflection stands out with her uncertainty. Hair loose and rumpled, her whole figure bewildered. Maybe the chicken nuggets with mayo she had for lunch disagreed with her, or maybe she just didn’t fit in.
But this realism is fleeting. He moves on, striding along with his nicotine-confident walk through the school. Reality wanes, bodies and voices face, and once again I wave my hand through the dust.
Hmm...needs some work...really weird no? closest I've come to getting what goes on in my head on paper...it's the way the world looks to me and the way I associate things mah o.O comments and criticism are welcome
The baby stares back, his eyes wide, watery, and dumb. I see no spark of specialness or wisdom - only averageness and absolute dependence. At this thought the baby coos and then shrieks, dissipating with a burst of air, driving the dust mad once more. I open and close my hands, checking to make sure no bits of baby Jesus were left behind. Again I turn to face my shadow, halo flickering with the breeze blowing in from an open window.
I stand on the bench, kicking out my legs in an exaggerated walk. (Oddness is a gift from the gods.) Thrusting my leg out waist high then letting it fall with a gargantuan clomp! The noise does not carry, it hits a barrier, falling dead to the floor in a mangled heap like a bird hitting a window. With briefness I frown but then move on as before along the bench. My plane of travel is not even, some sections lower and some higher than others. The supports beneath give a weary creak as I dance along, tired from bearing the weight of 40 years worth of students.
Closing my eyes I twirl along, fingers brushing the painted cinder block wall, creating a tornado of sunlight, dust, and magic from this empty dimension. Then I stop. My fingers have slipped into emptiness before curling around a corner. Experimentally I rock on my pivoted foot. I can feel the crease of the edge press into my sole. The Dancer has come to a fork in the music.
I turn myself into a weather vane, testing the winds to see which way I should go. My out-thrust leg turns left and right, left and right. I’m still indecisive. I throw the leg behind me into an arabesque. (Three years, two months, one week, four days, twenty-two hours, thirty-one minutes, and six seconds ago in the gym; one mile down Longstreet to the left on the balance beam in room sixteen that leant five degrees to the right and had a wobbly leg. The teacher was Mrs. Rubow, and there were nine other students. Sixty-percent had brow hair, twenty-five had blonde, and fifteen percent had black.) I breathe deeply, sniffing out the wisest path. There’s a strange taste on the current, like peanut bitter and sunflowers, so I follow.
I walk my tromping walk. Clodding, plodding (or any other stiff-jointed gait) along, following the smell a bit like magic. Magic smells like marzipan, magic is like marzipan; nutty and sweet, malleable, and simply composed. I keep my eyes closed. You cannot see magic, so why keep them open? The wall beneath my fingertips begins to tremble and tingle. Almost as quickly as it came it recedes.
The smell begins to change; stronger then weaker, bitter, then sweeter, and back again. The smell of something foreign invades may nostrils, something dank and damp like mildew with a hint of joy (which smells like a bowl of fresh lemons) beneath. I’m breathing like a fish, big gasping gulps as if I can’t get enough in my lungs, smell making me heady. The I trip, foot connecting with a rough foreign fabric. I catch my balance, lean over the object, and breathe deeply. It’s the lost thing, the thing of lemons and mildew. Opening my eyes I take it in. It’s a backpack.
Have you ever lost something so thoroughly that you never see it again? Well this is where they come to. This other place outside the window of Reality where you can’t enter but look in. You could almost say it’s a ghost world.
I take a wide detour around the bad, being careful to not leave the benches. Several paces later I turn around. It’s still sitting there. It’s doubtful that it will ever be claimed. I don’t want to touch it, it may pull me back. A hand rises to defend my nose against the offense and turn and hurry away from the past.
I move through the school in a hurry, eventually crouching by the catfish pond. I wonder who feeds them. How’d I get caught up in this long distance drama? It’s only a bag, only a bag that smells like lemons and mildew.
My legs extend as I stand, moving forward and back into my fanciful dance across the ugly tiled floor. Shadow is my partner and my feet strum the floor like a guitar. The taste of peanut butter is on my lips, a bit different but not completely.
I spin into the English hall. The music the floor makes here sounds like Chopin, light and flowing, full of variation. Before I was lost, this was my favorite hall.
I slip up to closed doors, peering in the tiny windows and watching the classes at work. In the mixing bowl I view roaming students in the reflection of the viewing case glass. All is average, all is normal, but I still smell peanut-butter and sunflowers.
Ten twenty-five; “I” should be in AP Calculus now. With a thrust-kick I renew the quest to Math hall. Here the floor is strict and reserved, everything precise like a waltz or a tango. The scent clicks in my head, it’s longing. Peanut-butter smells like longing or vice versa.
I continue to dance about with Shadow, but Shadow’s not very good at this kind of dancing. He’s too loose in the joints for the tango and instead winds up looking like a flopping ragdoll, clumsy and desperate. I try to correct his form but he inevitably returns to his double-jointed jumping. We both stop in perfect pirouettes before room 135, and lick our lips with desire. I look in the window to find the person that smells like sunflowers, caked in peanut-butter longing.
Her hair is a loose nutty brown, hiding her face. Downturned eyes are embedded with gems of green. Shadow peers in behind me, cool gray hands on my shoulders.
“What’re you doing in there?” he asks. I just continue to watch, nails digging in the fake wood frame of the window. As I step back the floor resounds with a powerful chord. I retreat back to my courtyard bench, going the long way so as to skirt the dank lost lemon bag, crouching like a tiger in the sun-square.
Down the hall a tromp echoes, spreading and filling the hall in a waxing-waning wave. It’s Reality, all trussed up in an Armani pinstripe with Gucci shoes. The cigarette peaking from between his thin lips adds a final touch of coolness, along with the slicked back auburn hair. His gate is easy and rolling, breathing confidence. I guess anyone would have that confidence though if they were the undeniable truth. He doesn’t offer me any acknowledgement greater than a glance. (Then again why should Reality address the Unreal?)
Behind him is the missing mob of the halls, ghostly voices empty and obedient with a hint of hollowness. Their transparent bodies crowd around me, chatting and babbling inanely. They can’t see past the cloth that’s been cast over them, but they still see me, the girl who sees past everything. Her name is Reflection.
He’s directly in front of me, not looking my way, and the gaggle behind him takes on a disturbing solidity, their voices, and noises culminating in a roar. The sound isn’t even overcome by the dead, flat sound of the bell. Out of the monotone Reflection stands out with her uncertainty. Hair loose and rumpled, her whole figure bewildered. Maybe the chicken nuggets with mayo she had for lunch disagreed with her, or maybe she just didn’t fit in.
But this realism is fleeting. He moves on, striding along with his nicotine-confident walk through the school. Reality wanes, bodies and voices face, and once again I wave my hand through the dust.
Hmm...needs some work...really weird no? closest I've come to getting what goes on in my head on paper...it's the way the world looks to me and the way I associate things mah o.O comments and criticism are welcome