Scrawlers

With work behind me and the weekend before me, I'm cruising at the speed of serene. To my right, where the mountains touch the sky, the sun melts along the line of the horizon. It spews it's remaining light at a last ditch effort to speak the story of this day.

The cockpit of my car is bathed in brilliant light. Air, electrified, exposes secrets as if in a Tolkien tale. A radiant silver wire is revealed from steering wheel to window. Serenity turns to concern as my arachnophobia flares and eyes dart from side to side.

The smoke and dust finally settled down.

Stunned, George surveyed the damage; the broken windows, the burnt-out kitchen, the collapsed ceiling, the upended furniture, the shattered remains of just about every object and knick-knack he owned. He pulled out a chair from the rubble and flopped down onto it in disbelief.

Why did I have to get the very first housekeeping robot before they worked out the bugs, he thought.

He walked around looking at the bare desolation that a few words had caused. There were exceptionally white spots where the tv, couch,desk, and a few pictures had been hung. A couple of wires were hanging out nonchalantly in the corner, trying to escape notice. The closest looked like a recently emptied, sticky garbage can. Scraps of scribbled upon paper and broken hangers littered the closet floor, without any clothes to balance out the madness. The bathroom still had smudges of spilled make up and extra toothpaste. Everything was empty.

"Could you spare some change?"
"Um, well, you see....."
"Please Ma'm, I just want to get something hot to eat tonight."
"I really just don't have any change on me, and I'm in a hurry."
"If you honestly don't have any change on you, why would it matter whether or not you're in a hurry somewhere?"
"I just meant..."
"No worries. I know perfectly well what you meant. Homeless, tattered clothes, begging on the street. It must be addicted to drugs, meth most likely. Congratulations on being wrong. You'll never know the truth now."

While the light dimmed with the blinds being pulled, the speakers crackled from overuse and exhaustion. Every sound resonated against the cold tile floor, screaming itself into existence.

"This is how I will decide the rest of my life," she murmured to herself.

Her clammy and pale hands shook violently while opening the email. The pine tree, the paintings, every voice was a well wanted distraction from the rejection that could be imminent.

"Not today. Tomorrow. I can wait until tomorrow."

And with a self-defiance only fear could birth, she closed the window and walked away.

I am choking. I cannot seem to breathe life into my words. Gasping I realize I am locked in these keys, in the pencil, in the pen. My voice will not be clear without the aid. I am choking myself with censorship. Instead of the music of my life, the only sounds I make are unintelligent and Precambrian. The key to my success lies only in myself. No matter how hard I try I can't bring these keys to life. Consequently I die. The choking has consumed my soul.

It was 5am, and his gentle jackhammer of a song pierced my rest. With nothing but a down comforter, darkness and my thoughts to occupy me, I turned to contemplation.

There is a definite structure to his song. My ear locks onto his patterns. Definitely a western European chromatic form. I then consider how perhaps the music from passing cars, open patio doors and very voices of their human counterparts permeate their bird-brains, lending to them a hint of how music should sound. Do they then adopt that theorem?

How do birds sound in Bangladesh I wonder...

"I'll try for a while," she thought to herself just as she had done before. When Danny had spoken to her like trash, she would think of pressing on, but only for a while. When he smacked her, she decided to simply, "try for a while." She could always get out if she wanted. After he stole from her, she figured she'd press on. She'd, "try for a while."

Ten years later, she admires her image wrapped in white veil and gown. She's beautiful, and will try only for a while.

It's 5AM. And you are nowhere to be found. The skeleton hand creeps along the glass, pounding away our fears and dreams. The repeated sound causes my fingers to miss keys, turning structured thoughts into garbled sentences. The hand creeps farther and farther. If only you were here it could stop. The bones are a bleached white, long and almost angular. In the darkness they glow, calling minds to surrender to them. If you were found I could stop them. The pounding shakes through me. Each audible beat a nail into my soul. But I cannot find you today.

She finally did it. After all these countless years of metaphorically exaggerating this very situation, she finally followed through and literally stabbed me in the heart. I can feel the blade pierce that particular blood pumping muscle then retract with each beat.What kills me more than anything though is I know that even now, despite everything, were she to ask for forgiveness I would still be obliged to give it to her.