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| Spamateur by mrs. johnson 08/13/2003, 3:55am PDT | ||||
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| This is the first work as a result of multiple sessions in a while. That explains the inconsistency in style. Sorry. All comments welcome. Excuse the grammar errors, it is late and I am too tired to read it over.
Dawn. Maybe. A violent chord slowly begins to swell as an ode to the dying night. It happens only when there is no one around to hear it. A listener would spoil the somber mood. A listener would not understand that each night and day that come are nothing like their predecessors. Patrick opens the door to his apartment building and steps into the rain. The chord cuts off immediately, but Patrick is completely unaware. The rain is light, but persistent and Patrick forgot to buy an umbrella when he lost his a few months ago. He walks a few blocks to a local café, and waits outside for it to open. This is a daily ritual, and the owner always has Patrick’s order ready when he opens. The awning protects him from further rain, and he leans against the wall. These few minutes are devoted each day to Patrick’s on going battle against cigarettes. He takes out a single cigarette and holds it in front of him. Traffic on the street in front of him is increasing, but Patrick takes no notice. He is staring intently at the cigarette and attempting to rationalize away his need for it. It’s money, he thinks, that I don’t have. It is bad for my health, and women don’t appreciate it. I keep smoking it for some reason. Probably because I have the pack. That is probably the reason. I have it, so I smoke it. It’s easy to just forget what I’m doing. Well I’ll finish this pack and then I won’t buy anymore. No problems. Patrick puts the small tube into his mouth and lights the end on fire. He takes a few puffs and exhales, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible. The door behind him clicks open, but he stays outside, smoking. On impulse, he throws the pack out as well as the cigarette butt into a nearby garbage can. A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he walks into the café. The clerk is an attractive woman in her mid twenties. Her name is Cara. She and Patrick are attracted to each other, but Patrick is shy and she is waiting for him to ask her all the right questions. “Good morning.†Cara smiles at Patrick, with his tea and bagel steaming in front of her. “Hi.†Patrick pays for his food and pauses briefly. “I…Th-thank you.†He turns around and walks into the rain before Cara can reply. Outside, he hails a taxi and tells the driver to take him to the train station. The driver attempts to make conversation. “Why the long face, chum?†Patrick feels no strong urge to reply, but, out of politeness, does, “Uh, nothing. Don’t worry about it.†The cabbie shrugs, but keeps his silence for the rest of the ride. He stares out the window with unfocused eyes. A blurry, shifting landscape presents itself to him in hundreds of shades of gray. Once in a while, a meaningless flash of color pushes through the drab majority. Patrick attempts to pinpoint the meaning behind this ordinary vision, but before he can draw any conclusions, the cab stops abruptly. Patrick pays the Cabbie, and steps out of the car. The car pulls away towards further prospective customers before the door is fully closed. Patrick’s pants are splashed with residue that has been summoned by the accelerating cab. Patrick walks at a leisurely pace towards the train the he is early for. He hands the conductor the ticket, and their eyes meet for a moment. Patrick smiles at the conductor, a smile devoid of all humor, bordering on psychotic. He quickly catches himself and rushes into the train. He finds his seat as soon as he can, and closes the door behind him. Expecting privacy, he is surprised to find the other passenger already onboard. Patrick sits down, and covers his face with a book to discourage conversation. He thinks furiously about his behavior of a minute ago and frowns in confusion. “Are you alright?†The man sitting opposite him speaks, as Patrick cringes. “Yes. Fine.†Patrick does not put the book down, and his voice is muffled. “You don’t sound fine. I’m James.†The man has a soft voice. Patrick sighs and closes the book. His eyes take in James. He is of medium build, mid fifties, wearing a pin striped suit and a bowler hat. “What’s the trouble?†“Look, I’m really in no mood to discuss it right now. I appreciate you asking.†Patrick picks the book up again, and sits, starting blankly at the word “fellâ€. The man across from him smiles, shrugs and falls silent. Patrick is entirely too irritated to actually read the book that he has been staring at. He puts it down and stares out the window. The rain has subsided, and a bit of sunshine is peeking through the thinning clouds. The passing landscape is a morphing panorama of natural and artificial objects. Urban locales are fewer and fewer, as the color green slowly regains its rightful throne. The train is painfully modernized, and the speed continues to increase well into the range where the landscape becomes a bit too blurry to be enjoyed. Patrick stares for long enough without blinking to make his eyes water. They keep producing moisture, and he is no longer sure whether the tears have origins in the body or in the mind. He closes his eyes and hopes that the man across from him does not notice the tears. In this manner, he falls asleep. When Patrick opens his eyes again, the compartment is empty and it is night outside. The train does not seem to be moving. He stands up sleepily and walks into the hallway. It is silent and empty. He makes his way to the exit and steps outside. The stars are sparse, with no moon anywhere to be seen. Broken trains dot the landscape, which is composed of uncut grass and a few trees. The ground is hilly, and no civilization besides the trains is visible in any direction. Patrick stands with his mouth slightly parted, a frown frozen to his face. He walks over to the nearest tree and examines it. Ordinary in every way. A great oak, still growing. He sits against the bark and waits. Patrick closes his eyes, hoping that when they open he will be back on the train, looking at the man across from him. When his eyes open, he is still looking across a badly lit terrain. Lying on the ground, he attempts to appropriate logic to his situation, but does not even know where to begin. Patrick attempts to sleep, waiting for the sun, to give him a better look at his surroundings. He dreams of a xylophone, which creates life instead of sound, with him playing a one man symphony. Plants and animals flow outwards from him, in an omni-directional halo of life, more tools for the universe to use in its quest for self perception. His dream self smiles benevolently and looks up into a blue, cloudless sky, striking the instrument as quickly as possible. He wakes up to the sound of gun shots. His eyes settle on a raging battle. Two groups of men, in almost identical clothing, are firing submachine guns at each other, from behind the trains being used as cover. Patrick stands up and begins to walk over to the closest group. He is virtually ignored. He asks the nearest man, “What is going on?†The man looks him over with a suspicious look and begins to speak in a language that Patrick does not understand. He then points behind him. Patrick follows the finger, and realizes that it points to a tent. He jogs over to it and enters inside, eager for answers. There, sits a portly man with a moustache. He exclaims something in still another language, and begins to rummage through a pile of clothes. He takes out a uniform similar to the one he is wearing and hands it to Patrick. He hesitates, but puts it on. He receives a rifle soon after. Patrick heads back outside, no longer confused. The sun is out, slightly larger than he remembers, and brimming over with light. The sky is as blue as it was in his dream, and there is a great big smile on Patrick’s face. He finds a spot next to the soldier he first met and opens fire on the opposing train. Between bursts he and the man next to him wink at each other, laughing. the mrs. |
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Spamateur by 08/13/2003, 3:55am PDT  Re: Spamateur by 08/13/2003, 10:41am PDT Re: Spamateur by 08/13/2003, 12:04pm PDT |
