Welcome to my writing corner. Here you'll find stand alone stories and tales that stretch much longer. You'll find tales ranging from medieval adventure to modern stories about real people with a sci-fi twist. If you like/hate what you read, drop me a line and let me know.

You can find the stories grouped by the labels just to the right.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

What If? - Chapter 5

Something colorful is playing on an old brown 19 inch TV. Is that Yellow Submarine?

“TV, again!?” A woman’s voice makes my head turn. It’s a girl in her early to mid twenties, black hair with a streak of pink, lip pierced, twice. Must be my girlfriend. The first word that comes to mind is thick.

“Yeah.” Stoner-me mumbles.

“Did you finish those commissions?”

“Not yet”, warm smoke fills my lungs; I hold it for a moment then exhale, “I haven’t found my inspiration yet.”

She struts over, using that walk that only big girls can use, and drops a stack of bills in my lap. At the top of the stack is the rent bill and it’s three months past due.

“Jesus woman!” I snap, “You think this is easy? I can’t just draw, I have to feel it!” Wow Stoner-me is a lazy prick.

“Feel your way to some groceries then!” Her face starts to turn red. “Look at you! I thought you were going to be something, you had such ambition, but now, you don’t do shit! Just sit there and smoke weed all day.” Her chubby fingers grab a stack of drawings off a nearby desk. Wow, they look good, Stoner-me turned into a pretty good artist.

Apparently this upsets me because I stand up off the couch, “Don’t, don’t do that.”

She doesn’t listen; Thick Girlfriend tears the handful of drawings in two and tosses them into a dented garbage can. “I guess your Dad was right!” The words leave her mouth before she can think about them and the look on her face means she immediately regrets them.

I stand, silent for a moment, even though I can’t control Artist-me, I can feel the rage building. The redness that turns vision into haze and rational thought into irrational action. I reel back, ball my hand into a fist and punch a hole in the drywall. I can feel the tear of skin on my knuckles, I pull back and let my foot fly, kicking over a poorly constructed bookshelf.

“You shut your goddamn mouth! Who do you think you are!? Don’t ever talk to me like –“
I’m cut off as clouds of darkness fill my vision; I feel a yank around my waist pulling my upward.

Everything goes dark and my body shakes uncontrollably for a moment.

I’m in the uncomfortable chair, I can feel the goggles heavy on my face, my stomach churns. Hands pull the black circles from my eyes, next thing I feel is the ground under my palms and acidy chunks in my mouth as I vomit on the concrete floor of the lab.

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