Some Whole Wheat Words

And Other Up-Lift

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In his imagination the author stood in the kitchen of his future house. The kitchen was well appointed in concrete, steel and wood. A bottle of olive oil was open on the counter, reflecting a skirt of bright halogen spotlight. It was otherwise dark in the kitchen. The author had a glass of alcohol over ice in one hand and he wore a blue striped jacket, which was buttoned wrong. One side of the collar of the jacket was fighting with the other, pushing it downwards.

“I sure am glad that I wrote some sort of bestselling creative work,” said the author, “for now I have made an indeterminate amount of money which means that I am set for life, though without feeling like all further work on my part has been rendered meaningless.”

Yippee. The name of the work changes but was always uninspired in the vague sort of way book titles tend to be. Inanimate Objects Doing Things Such as Singing or Crying, Someone Performing an Action in a Foreign City, The Name of an Emotion or Strong Feeling, Two Foods or Spices Juxtaposed To Imply a Rustic Earthiness, Doing Something Which Your Mother Warned You About, A Fictional Organisation of People With a Single Unusual Job or the Friends or Close Relations of These People. A Plural Word Prefaced by “The” Which Will Make Sense if You Read the Book. Secret Lives of Everyday Objects or Types of Wild Animals.

“I wonder how many people Missing Connectioned me on Craigslist today,” said the author to himself, wishing he had a more clever way of saying “Missing Connectioned.”

“I bet like a million people Missing Connectioned me on Craigslist today,” he said. “Like a million people. It is a good thing I wrote that work, whatever it was, for now I have good fashion sense and no longer dress like a clown.” He smiled a smile which seemed in his mind less broad and stupid than it looked.

“Hello darling,” said a blurred amalgamation of half-glimpsed and changing parts which loosely conformed to a female silhouette. “How are you?”

“Ah, the significant other which I also magically have as a consequence of writing whatever it is I wrote,” said the author. “I am well. How are you?”

“I’m fine but I should tell you that we can’t go any further in this conversation, or really even this narrative,” it said, “because then you wouldn’t be Writing What You Know, and it’ll seem forced.” It crossed its arms. They were changing skin tones so rapidly that they looked grey in the glare of the track lighting.

“I think I can fake it,” said the author. “Faake it till you maake it,” he sang tunelessly before wondering if the quote was from a song. It wasn’t, was it? Maybe it was just something that people said.

“I don’t think it’s going to fly, Joe,” said the blurred silhouette. The author grabbed its arm and tried to reach its lips with his but felt only a numbing static.

Reach its lips with his,” it said in a tired voice. “See what I mean?” Daylight flooded the room as the roof was peeled off like shoe leather. All things began to rot and wither and curl and dissolve. Swarms of glossy cockroaches exploded from under the appliances to breed furiously over the bucking floor. He’d installed the floor in another dream scenario and now he felt attached to it and it was this which made him act.

Moving toward the bubbles in the floor through a low tide of insect bodies he attempted to press them down, first with one foot, then the other. Each time he managed to stick one back into the underlay another section peeled up leprously. If he just had a hammer and some nails, maybe he could do something but now the room had filled itself up with shining water. The pressure increased in his ears and his movements became slow as his limbs were stretched like gnarled taffy and his fingernails corrugated on themselves like potato chips and his skin browned and grew cancerous. He had a hammer in the basement and a box of nails, as well. If he could just

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Written by wholewheatwords

July 3, 2008 at 12:08 am

Posted in Uncategorized