Mike: Glimpses of a Man Part V

Link to Parts I and II
Link to Part III
Link to Part IV

Part V

Nah, his mind was right. I mean, maybe it was strained- eh, it was probably strained. He wasn't blind to the shit around him, ya know? He saw it, he smelled it. Probably better than me. See? He knew feculence when it passed him. Ya like that word? His way about things, ya know, he liked it. Didn't enjoy it. But ya know, some folks, uh ain't meant to enjoy and like at the same time. For real, he didn't need the change. Something changed though, and that shit tore him. He ain't the same since then. Yea, definitely strained.

*******

The pen quivered across the page torn from the notebook now resting in his lap. His eyes briefly amused by a potential misspelling. He dragged the pen across the word and rewrote it differently, and repeated the process, reverting back to the first take. A smile emerged, as he took his focus from the page upwards, and placed the pen behind his ear. His hand favored the slowly burning cigarette resting in the ashtray at his side. As it slid toward his lips, a few crumbs of ash flecked away, falling freely through the grates of the fire escape.

He rested, back against burgeoning brick, summoned from the ground toward a height unknown. Perhaps an overly poetic way to describe his situation. His eyes dabbled with the people below, blots of inconsistency smeared on a concrete canvas. Perhaps that's overly poetic too. His position hardly changed as he lifted his knee toward his chest, the notebook leaning upright. The pages, most frayed with overuse, faded ink smearing some select edges, while others, though few, remained unused. He tossed through the pages, still attached, and retrieved his current scribbling from his side. A hesitant comparison.

His eyes darted across the page, widening as they slid further down. His left hand clenched the metal grate beneath him as his right tightened its hold on the paper. It crumpled with the force, tearing slightly. His eyes relaxed, and he refocused on the street lights below, now dimly lit. He bit his lip- a crooked imprint, before releasing his grip, allowing his prosaic prose of filtered words to descend toward the people below.

*******

What is it that ya love? A person? A place? A thing? He asked it like it was his reason for being, ya know? I jus' told him I had love for all three. He'd show his teeth a bit, kinda like a smile, breathe a little bit harder and usually jus' go away and leave me about my business. One day I asked him what he loved. Try and catch him different. Ya know what he said? He said, he loves specific moments in time, not a person, not a place, not a thing, ya know? He said ya can't love a person a place or a thing unconditional. All you can do is love a moment with a person, a place, or a thing. With some people ya love more moments, maybe all moments, and with others ya love less moments. But ya never love anything specific but those moments. He said all that other shit is just us bending ourselves to some over inclusive conclusion 'bout love, ya know?

Mike: An Unfamiliar Warmth

Scott did a perfect job of explaining the purpose of this exercise in the post below. Check it out...

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Light poured in through the windows against the far wall, reflecting gently off the treaded parquet floorboards. The shades, drawn, revealed the chipped paint of the windowsill. Overexposure perhaps. Flecks of white had fallen to the floor, only to find themselves resting between the cracks of the wood, or periodically swept, cautiously under the heating pipes. The faucets were calm, no drips-no drops. French blinds cast a hesitant shadow, in the next room- vacant.

He sat and stared at the man in front of him, as the sun peeled its way from a cloud. The light glimmered off the rim of his glasses. A slight squint. He watched the man's eyes open and close, first at a rapid pace, and then slower, pausing, grasping for site- mimicking his breath. Drops of blood lined his face with undesired freckles. His right hand retrieved a cloth from a pocket- a smear into his pores. Shortened breaths caressed the palm of his hand as the cloth passed over his cheek.

His breath told a story. No words. There was a fading depth to his pupils. He suddenly understood the inconsistency in the story. He watched the man lift the .44, still whispering smoke and mimicked his smile as he watched the gun retreat to his side. Blood continued to run down the cracks of his palm. He felt the power of the man's cliché.

By the stroke of a trigger-

His mind raced, he could sense the urgency. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, as it speckled the floor- rose petals. He watched an arm, outstretched, reach for him. He reached for it, and felt an unfamiliar warmth. He looked up, and watched as the man's eyes rolled back. Another slight smile. Darkness-

His body fell to the side softly, arm still oustretched. He lurched forward toward the other hand. The mirror shattered as it fell to the floor. The sun's rays refracted off the broken shards of glass illuminating his motionless body.

Vacant, except for a whispering .44.

Scott: Theme Writing: Moving Day

Mike and I were talking not too long ago, discussing a story that Mike had shared. The conversation eventually moved to the topic of death, and the way in which each person copes with the experience of it. We decided on a quick theme for the day: exploring the changes that occur in the human psyche when a person sees someone killed in front of them. It may sound morbid, but I think its an interesting examination of the fragility of the mind. Humans are an amazing species, but not without their chinks in the armor...

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The water flowed out of the shower-head in a tight stream. Nathan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the cascade to hit him in the face. His breath was slow, tentative. the warm water rushed across his face and down his chest, back and arms and Nathan began to let his mind wander. His focus moved in and out: now on the water running hotly across his body; Now on the feeling of the tiled floor at his feet; Now on the water striking his face - hard, hot, almost sharp.

Nathan opened his eyes, and his head instinctively darted around. Glass filled the air, still reverberating from the impact; slicing through the air like incandescent daggers. Fireflys in the night.

Nathan started. He threw himself back quickly, and knocked his head against the wall of the shower, at the same time, blindly reaching and pulling the shower curtain down from its rings.

Now aware of himself, he cursed out loud, and threw the shower-curtain aside onto the floor. Then, quietly, he wrapped his arms around his legs, placed his head down, and cried.

Squinting through a red haze, blood running into his eyes from the cuts on his face, Nathan looked to his right. Into Maggie's eyes. Her mouth shivered lightly, and her hand twitched, her arm trying desperately to reach for him.

Pushing against the side of the shower, Nathan forced himself up and over, moving awkwardly into the wheelchair that sat empty next to the discarded curtain. Mechanically, he dried his body off and reached for his boxers. Sliding back and forth in his wheelchair, Nathan slowly slid them up and around his waist, he looked over at a pair of jeans, and, with visible disgust, ignored them. He did not look into the mirror.

Nathan's face streamed with tears. He reached for Maggie's hand and took it into his own. Her eyes followed his face, and he demanded that she stay awake; demanded that she stay with him.

Slowly, he wheeled himself out of the bathroom, and through the hall. Boxes, some half filled and others taped closed, lined all corners of the apartment, stacked neatly in various corners. When he approached the living room, he rolled to a stop. Samantha stood in the room, rifling through the various odds and ends left on the floor. She turned to greet him warmly, then held up a small framed painting, an explosion of colors and textures pressed behind glass and locked inside a wooden frame.

She tapped the glass encouragingly "Didn't you paint this before, Nathan? It's really good, why do you want to get rid of it?"

Maggie's eyes focused completely on Nathan's own. He watched her, with supreme effort, squeeze his hand with her own. blood trickled down the corners of her mouth, and she coughed briefly. Nathan tried to speak, tried to scream, but could not, his voice choked back with emotion. Maggie smiled weakly, and her hand stopped squeezing Nathan's.

Nathan looked at the painting, then let his eyes drop; he stared off into nothing for only a moment.

"I don't paint anymore."