Audioslave
02-15-2009, 3:23 PM
This is the autobiography of a convicted puppy mill owner who serves his time in a Manhattan coffee shop run by a sterile Italian and his ethically bankrupt wife.
Actually, it's a story intended not to contribute to the whole of the plot or character development, but to tell a story by capturing brief moments in time. Tell me what you think.
It's also not done as of yet, and maybe it never will be.
---
The world is so peaceful underwater. Even death is quiet, subdued. It suspends all dramatic imperatives and simply lets it go on. Tiny angels sleep soundly in my lungs, content with their beds of graying bronchioles. Stars appear around the edges of my vision; tiny exploding super novas and red dwarves, dances and pirouetting in the annals of space.
That is, of course, not how I was to go. Berserking beasts as we may be, we do not simply choose when to go; I would otherwise be laying my head on a pillow of soil and roots. I rose to the surface with biological urgency for air. Wheezing and sputtering, my hacking cough reverberated around the confined walls of the community pool. The young lifeguard looked at me, jarred to duty; her large blue eyes wild with fear and excitement. I smiled wanly and nodded. I’m alright, darling. A sigh of relief slid softly from her perfectly shaped lips and a look of complacency spread across her face. Yet her eyes, those beautiful things, betrayed her. The hawk-like stare of her steel-blue irises watched me intently. You better not die on me, old man. She though. I could tell, I knew her so well. Her red one-piece bathing suit accentuated her budding breasts, tempting me and rousing dormant desires. I left, throwing one last side-long glance at the teenage angel.
I was an alligator. Drunk, delirious and damaged, I wandered through the campus snapping at unsuspecting birds and fish. Where is she? Where has she gone? I stumbled to the pool; its doors gave none to my barrage against them. The lifeguard was most likely at home, sleeping, forgetting about the old man who watched her perfect figure. I cursed my luck, my courage and my sagging physique. My sad circulatory system pushed blood languidly to my face as I slumped against the door and fell asleep.
There, in the forty seconds between sleep and consciousness, she appeared to me. Her long, black hair blew in all directions at once, yet at the same time it stayed so calm and fluid. Her eyes, those deep pools of introspection and contempt peered onto my face, my graying hair and my conspicuous veneers. She wore nothing but her own confidence, a smug sense of lonely pride. I reached out to her, only to find that she had fallen to dust; vaporized my own realization of the world. Kicking aside the sweat laden sheets, I swung my useless feet around the bed and groped for a cigarette. Inhaling the sweet benzene and doing the slow waltz of death, I began towards my picture window; the only one in all of the dorms.
The sadder I am, the slower I fall. My slow decent came as no surprise, I was aware of the missing step in my slow gait. I became suspended in amber, being slowly lowered to the ground as angels tugged at my puppet strings. My cigarette slipped smoothly from my mouth, falling to the floorboards hurriedly, shedding ashes from its burning tip. It collided elastically, bouncing twice before laying to rest, smoldering on my bedroom floor. My eyes flew rapidly out of pace with my slow motion body, they jumped from one facet of my minimalistic apartment to another. They finally landed on the small framed picture beside my bed; my buried wife’s smiling face looked on my sad situation with mild surprise and great enjoyment.
Actually, it's a story intended not to contribute to the whole of the plot or character development, but to tell a story by capturing brief moments in time. Tell me what you think.
It's also not done as of yet, and maybe it never will be.
---
The world is so peaceful underwater. Even death is quiet, subdued. It suspends all dramatic imperatives and simply lets it go on. Tiny angels sleep soundly in my lungs, content with their beds of graying bronchioles. Stars appear around the edges of my vision; tiny exploding super novas and red dwarves, dances and pirouetting in the annals of space.
That is, of course, not how I was to go. Berserking beasts as we may be, we do not simply choose when to go; I would otherwise be laying my head on a pillow of soil and roots. I rose to the surface with biological urgency for air. Wheezing and sputtering, my hacking cough reverberated around the confined walls of the community pool. The young lifeguard looked at me, jarred to duty; her large blue eyes wild with fear and excitement. I smiled wanly and nodded. I’m alright, darling. A sigh of relief slid softly from her perfectly shaped lips and a look of complacency spread across her face. Yet her eyes, those beautiful things, betrayed her. The hawk-like stare of her steel-blue irises watched me intently. You better not die on me, old man. She though. I could tell, I knew her so well. Her red one-piece bathing suit accentuated her budding breasts, tempting me and rousing dormant desires. I left, throwing one last side-long glance at the teenage angel.
I was an alligator. Drunk, delirious and damaged, I wandered through the campus snapping at unsuspecting birds and fish. Where is she? Where has she gone? I stumbled to the pool; its doors gave none to my barrage against them. The lifeguard was most likely at home, sleeping, forgetting about the old man who watched her perfect figure. I cursed my luck, my courage and my sagging physique. My sad circulatory system pushed blood languidly to my face as I slumped against the door and fell asleep.
There, in the forty seconds between sleep and consciousness, she appeared to me. Her long, black hair blew in all directions at once, yet at the same time it stayed so calm and fluid. Her eyes, those deep pools of introspection and contempt peered onto my face, my graying hair and my conspicuous veneers. She wore nothing but her own confidence, a smug sense of lonely pride. I reached out to her, only to find that she had fallen to dust; vaporized my own realization of the world. Kicking aside the sweat laden sheets, I swung my useless feet around the bed and groped for a cigarette. Inhaling the sweet benzene and doing the slow waltz of death, I began towards my picture window; the only one in all of the dorms.
The sadder I am, the slower I fall. My slow decent came as no surprise, I was aware of the missing step in my slow gait. I became suspended in amber, being slowly lowered to the ground as angels tugged at my puppet strings. My cigarette slipped smoothly from my mouth, falling to the floorboards hurriedly, shedding ashes from its burning tip. It collided elastically, bouncing twice before laying to rest, smoldering on my bedroom floor. My eyes flew rapidly out of pace with my slow motion body, they jumped from one facet of my minimalistic apartment to another. They finally landed on the small framed picture beside my bed; my buried wife’s smiling face looked on my sad situation with mild surprise and great enjoyment.