wow I haven't updated in a million years yaaahhhhhknowwhatimean
Abrupt
Her death had seemed like a bad dream. There was no better way to describe a death; the sweat and tears when you wake up to it, the way everything you see reminds you of it. It makes closing ones eyes a chore, or a dare, like jumping into a pool that you know will be cold. But bodies adjust to temperature.
He had "moved on quickly," according to his friends, and went about his daily routine. He drank his coffee with milk and three sugars, he watched his late night comedians, he worked for cheap. It was easy to forget when everything else kept going. An extraneous variable still allows the experiment to continue, even if it is imperfect.
The bus tickets were unappealing. Their black print letters spelled "alone," and the impersonal nudging of dozens of weary travelers was more than he could bear.
The hum of his reliable, bent convertible camaro was more comforting. Even on the bleak road which wound through setting Arizona, he felt more at home, more welcome with the coyotes than with the bristling hounds of the city. They guarded their walls like garbage heaps, and their ribs were showing through. Ruthless, cruel, merciless. He preferred the shifting sands and the natural wilderness as opposed to the secretive, deceptive jungle of the city.
As if the great Presence had knocked over a shelf of paints in a hardward store, the sky oozed and undulated with color; a palet of beauty intertwined. The sun yawned, waned, waxed, disappeared. Still his engine hummed and the strange white noise of the radio (mysteriously) did not disturb the untouchable silence of the desert. The broken lines in the road were now a set course, straight and connected misteriously by the action of his foot on the pedal. His hair touseled and tickled his forehead, the wind ripped salt and water from his eyes. However, he was not crying, and felt at peace with his hands on the wheel, his back against the brown leather seats, his eyes fixed steadily on the horizon. He laughed to himself, a thin, black smile erupting into his features.
It was a scene from the movies...one of those overused scenarios which every corny, teen-based, cheap-budget film features. It was a perfect sky, with a lone car buzzing along a desolate, heat-plagued highway. With a little soupy music, he would have himself an award winning flick. It made him sick to imagine himself as the wind-blown main character, flawless, made-up and fake. Casted, predictable, and as plastic as the dashboard, as calculated and scripted as the workings of his engine. He would recite corny pick-up lines to the girl he would find on the side of the road, and would engage in a planned passion, their lips meeting and their hands running and their cheeks burning.
The smile widened, and his sickness spread. The thought made him shiver with a restless passion. Fake, fake, fake. He suddenly wanted to scrub the scene, tear his nails through it, disturb the peace and the silence. He wanted to rip himself out of it with his teeth, and take an eraser to the landscape. It is always a curious feeling to realize that you have become a cliche. A simple figure. A figment.
The eerie separation and unnatural feeling ignited his blood like a match thrown into a river of oil. He knew how he would disrupt the manufactured scenery. He pressed harder and harder on the pedal, the noise increasing, the fire rising higher and higher and higher in conjunction to the speedometers arrow. The sun had disappeared and dark tiptoed into heaven's bedroom. Spotting the cricket outside the window which disturbed the silence of the dwelling, the dark summoned the moon. The moon was not bright enough, however, to blind the reckless abandon. It decided, instead, to ignore and nested its head in a bed of clouds which chatted and shifted amongst themselves.
The speedometer hovered, vibrated slowly. He had hit the governer, the limit, the edge. This was something that the characters weren't supposed to do. They were supposed to meet at a gas station, grow up, have kids...
The engine's racket filled his ears and only served to drown out his insane screams. He laughed and screamed at the thought of ripping up the movie script, breaking the award-winning rules, splitting the bubble and running over a writer's masterpiece.
"What a joke! You've really pulled the wool over my eyes now. To trick me into believing it, sitting among those molds! What did you mean to accomplish, you sick, pitiful Presence, you practical joker, you think its funny? Gift me with a brain. Curse me with thoughts. I will never be frightened if nothing is certain. How can you be scared of a "maybe?""
The radio seemed louder, the incessant hen clucking of a million radio voices increased. The wind attempted to stop him, howling,and gripping his words like a mother would claw at her child's hand in an attempt to restrain him if he tried to run away. He felt as if he were driving through a gauntlet of fingers which tore at his hair, his clothing, his words.
Gripping the wheel tightly in white-knuckled hands, he spotted the headlights of an oncoming truck, moving quickly towards him on account of his speed. Smiling, crookedly, a ghost of a smile, he laughed.
"Now heres the punchline," he whispered, ripping the wheel left. The headlights resisted, not wanting to fall on the approaching shape.
"I've chosen my religion."
-----
So guys tell me what you think.
Her death had seemed like a bad dream. There was no better way to describe a death; the sweat and tears when you wake up to it, the way everything you see reminds you of it. It makes closing ones eyes a chore, or a dare, like jumping into a pool that you know will be cold. But bodies adjust to temperature.
He had "moved on quickly," according to his friends, and went about his daily routine. He drank his coffee with milk and three sugars, he watched his late night comedians, he worked for cheap. It was easy to forget when everything else kept going. An extraneous variable still allows the experiment to continue, even if it is imperfect.
The bus tickets were unappealing. Their black print letters spelled "alone," and the impersonal nudging of dozens of weary travelers was more than he could bear.
The hum of his reliable, bent convertible camaro was more comforting. Even on the bleak road which wound through setting Arizona, he felt more at home, more welcome with the coyotes than with the bristling hounds of the city. They guarded their walls like garbage heaps, and their ribs were showing through. Ruthless, cruel, merciless. He preferred the shifting sands and the natural wilderness as opposed to the secretive, deceptive jungle of the city.
As if the great Presence had knocked over a shelf of paints in a hardward store, the sky oozed and undulated with color; a palet of beauty intertwined. The sun yawned, waned, waxed, disappeared. Still his engine hummed and the strange white noise of the radio (mysteriously) did not disturb the untouchable silence of the desert. The broken lines in the road were now a set course, straight and connected misteriously by the action of his foot on the pedal. His hair touseled and tickled his forehead, the wind ripped salt and water from his eyes. However, he was not crying, and felt at peace with his hands on the wheel, his back against the brown leather seats, his eyes fixed steadily on the horizon. He laughed to himself, a thin, black smile erupting into his features.
It was a scene from the movies...one of those overused scenarios which every corny, teen-based, cheap-budget film features. It was a perfect sky, with a lone car buzzing along a desolate, heat-plagued highway. With a little soupy music, he would have himself an award winning flick. It made him sick to imagine himself as the wind-blown main character, flawless, made-up and fake. Casted, predictable, and as plastic as the dashboard, as calculated and scripted as the workings of his engine. He would recite corny pick-up lines to the girl he would find on the side of the road, and would engage in a planned passion, their lips meeting and their hands running and their cheeks burning.
The smile widened, and his sickness spread. The thought made him shiver with a restless passion. Fake, fake, fake. He suddenly wanted to scrub the scene, tear his nails through it, disturb the peace and the silence. He wanted to rip himself out of it with his teeth, and take an eraser to the landscape. It is always a curious feeling to realize that you have become a cliche. A simple figure. A figment.
The eerie separation and unnatural feeling ignited his blood like a match thrown into a river of oil. He knew how he would disrupt the manufactured scenery. He pressed harder and harder on the pedal, the noise increasing, the fire rising higher and higher and higher in conjunction to the speedometers arrow. The sun had disappeared and dark tiptoed into heaven's bedroom. Spotting the cricket outside the window which disturbed the silence of the dwelling, the dark summoned the moon. The moon was not bright enough, however, to blind the reckless abandon. It decided, instead, to ignore and nested its head in a bed of clouds which chatted and shifted amongst themselves.
The speedometer hovered, vibrated slowly. He had hit the governer, the limit, the edge. This was something that the characters weren't supposed to do. They were supposed to meet at a gas station, grow up, have kids...
The engine's racket filled his ears and only served to drown out his insane screams. He laughed and screamed at the thought of ripping up the movie script, breaking the award-winning rules, splitting the bubble and running over a writer's masterpiece.
"What a joke! You've really pulled the wool over my eyes now. To trick me into believing it, sitting among those molds! What did you mean to accomplish, you sick, pitiful Presence, you practical joker, you think its funny? Gift me with a brain. Curse me with thoughts. I will never be frightened if nothing is certain. How can you be scared of a "maybe?""
The radio seemed louder, the incessant hen clucking of a million radio voices increased. The wind attempted to stop him, howling,and gripping his words like a mother would claw at her child's hand in an attempt to restrain him if he tried to run away. He felt as if he were driving through a gauntlet of fingers which tore at his hair, his clothing, his words.
Gripping the wheel tightly in white-knuckled hands, he spotted the headlights of an oncoming truck, moving quickly towards him on account of his speed. Smiling, crookedly, a ghost of a smile, he laughed.
"Now heres the punchline," he whispered, ripping the wheel left. The headlights resisted, not wanting to fall on the approaching shape.
"I've chosen my religion."
-----
So guys tell me what you think.