(no subject)
Writing Prompt: Wolves.
Outside it was cold, drizzling with grey skies over-head. Occasional rumbles tore through the sky like someone passing by had their speakers blaring and the bass up far too high. I could picture it right then and there; a purple, maybe green, maybe some other obnoxious coloured vehicle with an obnoxious looking body sporting an obnoxious racing stripe that countered the colour of the body and offset it in a painful way was zooming through the dull coloured heavens with it's sound system blasting and maybe Jesus throwing up the metal horns.
Jesus, our saviour, thou art proving your worth by thrashing your head, cracking your spine and symbolizing your love for death metal-- and I'm here in class staring at Geoffry Johnson and his shirt.
To know the shirt, one must know Geoffry Johnson, and to know Geoffry Johnson, one must know the shirt. It was once a dark blue with one of those murals, you know the kind, the ones that people plaster on their walls, dishes, folders, computer desktops, and apparently shirts. They were the murals that people claimed were real Native American works, but everyone knew the cheats got them from the half-off section of the local Target. That really seemed to be the story of Geoffry Johnson's life. When God picked him out he went to the local Target, headed directly to the half-off section and pulled out the first thing he saw, which was ironically one of the most malformed things available.
Geoffry, Geoff, Sultan of the basement dwellers was what you would expect from someone with that shirt.
He was large, not in the way that prevents one from getting out of bed unfortunately, but instead in the way that simply makes the bulky one in question awkward to look at and awkward to maneuver around. Not only was Geoffry large, but he was sweaty. The shirt was ringing with a pattern of wetness around the collar and around his arms, causing quite a bit of cringing whenever the limbs in question were lifted so he could answer a question in a breathy voice that contained more pretentious sounding words and attempts at meaningful prose that one could imagine.
His eyes were placed low on his forehead and his brow was strong in the caveman sense of the word, not the dignified. His hair was nearly always pulled back into a loose, greasy pony tail. I always theorized on why exactly Geoffry felt the need to pull it back, in my mind it couldn't be something as simple as not wanting it to be in the way. No, it had to involve the shirt.
Everything was about the shirt, because the shirt was everything to Geoffry. It lifted at the bottom, signifying that the shirt was getting too small to satisfy his bulky frame; or his bulky frame was growing too large to satisfy the shirt. I imagine it was the latter, but I'd prefer to think it was just the shirt finally rebelling against Geoffry and his sweat stains, Geoffry and his breathy, nasally voice, Geoffry and his pretentious words. I almost gave the shirt credit until I eyed it once again and remembered how much I loathed the shirt, how much I despised it.
My grey eyes narrowed at the shirt as Geoffry stood in front of the class right this second, breathing a speech at us about something. Something related to the shirt. False golden coloured eyes stared back at me, the creature printed on the fabric's mouth was opened and it's teeth were bared with saliva drip-dropping from them and down the furry sides of its mouth. The lone wolf, so ferocious, so independent, so mysterious and so at one with nature.
As I stared at this printed image, and as it stared back, I couldn't help but wonder about the significance of Geoffry's chosen shirt. I couldn't help but wonder why he had chosen the wolf with its ugly snout furled and it's red tongue hanging out. I wonder if he felt as if it was a message. I wonder if he thought the wolf was a symbol, a statement about himself-- or more realistically, what he wanted to be.
Bold, mysterious and stealthy, courageous, ferocious and alone. A real figure of masculinity, a real statement of how unique and alone Geoffry thought himself to be.
But then I wondered;
If Geoffry realized that lone wolves these days were anything but few and far between.
Outside it was cold, drizzling with grey skies over-head. Occasional rumbles tore through the sky like someone passing by had their speakers blaring and the bass up far too high. I could picture it right then and there; a purple, maybe green, maybe some other obnoxious coloured vehicle with an obnoxious looking body sporting an obnoxious racing stripe that countered the colour of the body and offset it in a painful way was zooming through the dull coloured heavens with it's sound system blasting and maybe Jesus throwing up the metal horns.
Jesus, our saviour, thou art proving your worth by thrashing your head, cracking your spine and symbolizing your love for death metal-- and I'm here in class staring at Geoffry Johnson and his shirt.
To know the shirt, one must know Geoffry Johnson, and to know Geoffry Johnson, one must know the shirt. It was once a dark blue with one of those murals, you know the kind, the ones that people plaster on their walls, dishes, folders, computer desktops, and apparently shirts. They were the murals that people claimed were real Native American works, but everyone knew the cheats got them from the half-off section of the local Target. That really seemed to be the story of Geoffry Johnson's life. When God picked him out he went to the local Target, headed directly to the half-off section and pulled out the first thing he saw, which was ironically one of the most malformed things available.
Geoffry, Geoff, Sultan of the basement dwellers was what you would expect from someone with that shirt.
He was large, not in the way that prevents one from getting out of bed unfortunately, but instead in the way that simply makes the bulky one in question awkward to look at and awkward to maneuver around. Not only was Geoffry large, but he was sweaty. The shirt was ringing with a pattern of wetness around the collar and around his arms, causing quite a bit of cringing whenever the limbs in question were lifted so he could answer a question in a breathy voice that contained more pretentious sounding words and attempts at meaningful prose that one could imagine.
His eyes were placed low on his forehead and his brow was strong in the caveman sense of the word, not the dignified. His hair was nearly always pulled back into a loose, greasy pony tail. I always theorized on why exactly Geoffry felt the need to pull it back, in my mind it couldn't be something as simple as not wanting it to be in the way. No, it had to involve the shirt.
Everything was about the shirt, because the shirt was everything to Geoffry. It lifted at the bottom, signifying that the shirt was getting too small to satisfy his bulky frame; or his bulky frame was growing too large to satisfy the shirt. I imagine it was the latter, but I'd prefer to think it was just the shirt finally rebelling against Geoffry and his sweat stains, Geoffry and his breathy, nasally voice, Geoffry and his pretentious words. I almost gave the shirt credit until I eyed it once again and remembered how much I loathed the shirt, how much I despised it.
My grey eyes narrowed at the shirt as Geoffry stood in front of the class right this second, breathing a speech at us about something. Something related to the shirt. False golden coloured eyes stared back at me, the creature printed on the fabric's mouth was opened and it's teeth were bared with saliva drip-dropping from them and down the furry sides of its mouth. The lone wolf, so ferocious, so independent, so mysterious and so at one with nature.
As I stared at this printed image, and as it stared back, I couldn't help but wonder about the significance of Geoffry's chosen shirt. I couldn't help but wonder why he had chosen the wolf with its ugly snout furled and it's red tongue hanging out. I wonder if he felt as if it was a message. I wonder if he thought the wolf was a symbol, a statement about himself-- or more realistically, what he wanted to be.
Bold, mysterious and stealthy, courageous, ferocious and alone. A real figure of masculinity, a real statement of how unique and alone Geoffry thought himself to be.
But then I wondered;
If Geoffry realized that lone wolves these days were anything but few and far between.