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DriverHeaven Junior Member
Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: Somewhere between Alaska and Hawaii
Posts: 53
Rep Power: 0
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Short Story
This is a short story I wrote for the hell of it. Tell me what you think.
It's 6AM. It's morning. Time is pulling my ankles, dragging me out of bed, into the shower, and out to work. The world escapes me in the bed, so I think it's best to sleep, and when I sleep, I think the world is best without me. In the bed, my soul sinks so low that I can hardly rise. And when awoken, it takes me a few minutes to realize where I am and how I got here. It doesn't matter though, because that experience is gone quickly. Soon, I am up, I am about, and I am off to whatever I have to do, because whatever I have to do must be worth doing, or I wouldn't bother getting out of bed in the first place. Tonight will be a good night. I'm going to meet a girl, go to dinner, and maybe do something afterwards. It's this kind of anticipation that arouses my senses and lifts me from my tomb. I get up, stagger into the shower, get dressed, and begin my day with the usual vigor, which is nothing at all.
It's 8AM. I'm at work, and I regret getting out of bed this morning. My eyes are inching ever so closely to blackness, my ears wish they could sew themselves shut, and my hands are as animated corpses from the crypt. It is my belief that God breathes us of life, into animation, and without this essential breath, I would have never left my starting place: the bed. Every day is a rat race in one of those spherical balls that always are moving but never get you anywhere at all. It's much like an interstate shaped like a figure eight. You'll be going nowhere, but you're guaranteed to be late. The sweet aroma of the juice of life tingles my senses, emanating from all that surrounds me, it's the lovely brown liquid that fuels the human soul like gasoline would fuel a car: coffee. What would life be without it? God's breath and coffee are a one-two punch to my being.
It's 1PM. It's a lunchbreak. I go where I want, eat what I want, and go back to where I'm supposed to be. It's an hour of freedom, if you would like to call freedom an hour in which you are allowed to eat. I'm in the car, and I think I'll drive wherever a gas pedal can take me, which, without steering, would be straight into the building. And, that would mean death and misery. We can't have that. We have to work. I'm on the road, in the lifeless town. It's only lifeless because everyone is living elsewhere, working. Soon, though, I will escape the lifelessness and enter the local McDonald's. There are always people there who live like me, look like me, and spend their lunch money like me: at McDonald's. After I eat, I head back, or should I? Why don't I leave? There are plenty of places to go, but they're always the same. You have to work to live, you have to drive to live, you have to eat to live. I return.
It's 5PM. I'm going home. The streets are like a Hell in which everyone knows their road to follow, yet nobody else knows how to get to theirs. The noises of thousands of horns play in unison, reminding one of some type of badly tuned orchestra. You can listen to the radio, you can honk a horn, you can exclaim happiness and freedom, but you're really just on a road with thousands of others. Your course is set out for you, you know where you have to go. No one is going to play the harp when you die, so you might as well do as your told. I travel among the dead, who are so animated with their conversations, their actions, that is easy to see how God can do this to us. It is easy to see how we are born the same every day, in that we all are the same, and that every human emotion known to man has already been expressed, and all we can do is repeat ourselves until we are allowed to stay in bed. For good.
It's 7PM. I'm ready, I'm going to meet her. The gates of haven are close by, but very far in my mind. I am so nervous that I can feel the teeth chattering inside my skull. The vivacity with which my leg works itself aimlessly is astounding. I arrive, best dressed, hair long, dark, and curly, hopefully handsome enough for her. Doorbell rings, she answers. Beautiful. Astounding. Elegant. A curved figure topped with rosy cheeks and long, brunette hair graces itself out of Heaven and into my grasp. My chest is thumping, as I say Hello, please step into my car. We will be eating shortly. Then, afterwards, we can maybe sleep.
It's 8PM. I think she's wonderful. Her face, hair, legs, arms, are all screaming at me, telling me to move closer to them, to animate them. I want so deeply in my soul to reach out and touch her velvet skin, but I am forbidden by the laws of proper life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. I can wait, I can talk, I can animate my being so that I appear to her as whatever appeals to her. There's no use in letting anything out of the bag, as I can still feed her and listen intently. Unlike many other girls, this one seems not to be deaf, but is also listening as intensely as I listen to her. Is this perfect? Is she an angel? Never have I met someone quite like this, who can be startlingly beautiful and deeply accessible at the same time. As they say, you can't look in on one-way eyes, but I can see perfectly into her light blue glass ovals, I can see her yearning to go to bed with me.
It's 9PM. We had a great time. We're going back to my place for a little while, which can only mean one thing: sleep. I let her in the door with ease, now adjusted to her self and her personality. Never once have I tired this night of looking at her face, and peering into the mysterious abyss of those finely crafted light blue ovals. Never once have her eyes left me, and so I feel, that we must, as good and loving adults, rest our bodies together, in a communion of love. My soul sinks heavily in the covers, so deep that I can hardly reach out to touch her. "Shut your eyes," and I close mine, and I wrap my arms around the slender, youthful body. Oh, we have so much to say. We have so much to express, time is running out, pulling at my ankles. All we are allowed to utter is all we are able to utter. The words escape, but are not finished, and so we are left without any idea at what it meant at all.
"Sleep well, my dear."
"Good night, and... I lo...."
It's 6AM. It's morning. Time is pulling my ankles, dragging me out of bed, into the shower, and out to work. The world escapes me in the bed, so I think it's best to sleep, and when I sleep, I think the world is best without me.....
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