The Write Every Day Thread

[Leid]

Ants


my concepts fall like blankets from the clouds,
covering and overlapping upon the furthermost peaks
that most people don't even consider when contemplating
what is what and how to teach their children the basic principle

a fraction of me is still a naive child who notices everything
with an unbiased grin, ready to smile again after an unpleasant surprise.
another portion regrets the naivety and reacts according to distrust and
the occasional malicious outburst strong enough to injure the wielder of the weapon

both are reflections of the other, regardless of what they accept to be true.
two and one and—this one feels spite and sweats spite and wants to scratch
right through, deep and red and elastic like rubber veins in a recreation of
something prettier than our insides

the fist that punches the object with zero give
with one hundred percent certainty that this plus that
equals a trip to the emergency room.
for hours, four hours, few people ever get over the number of tiles in each room's ceiling.

crop this section and throw that one away
corners are subject to what is left and right and the painter in between
who always happens to stop by right after someone just gets done explaining
something that can only be understood through the embarrassment of ironic failure

[eXarc]

Something I wrote after reading a LOT of Chuck P. No I am not depressed or a washed old bitter man. Just tried this style of writing (or whatever you'd call it) and went with it. Was actually mildly entertaining to write it and let off a lot of steam, ha. I have plenty more pieces that aren't quite as...well..you know. Anyway,


You already know how this story ends. This story, your life. All one pathetic attempt at creating something. Achieving something. Being something. Destroying something. You know exactly where I’m going with this, and I shouldn’t have to tell you. But I’m going to anyway. You’re used to it, remember? Used to hearing exactly what you already know, as if someone surgically removed your brain and meticulously replaced it with a tape recorder. Here you are, hitting play over and over every time you speak. Hitting rewind every time someone says something to you, because you’ve heard it all before. This is what makes you.

It’s kind of sad to see you in this position, really. Someone with so much potential, but no will to push it. Nothing to lose, but no will to win. You’re what most people would refer to as a “fucking waste.” But you see, that’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re reading this, just to make sure you’re not a fucking waste. Just a quick reminder that your life is the foundation of something great. You poor child. You poor, poor misguided child.

Now, press pause on the tape recorder you call a brain. I’m going to tell you something you’re not used to hearing everyday. Something that’s not programmed into you. Yet. You are a fucking waste. Every thought. Every action. Every slight movement. None of it will ever last. Plenty of people have been told that they’d never amount to anything, though. You are one of them. I’m not here to tell you that. I’m not here to tell you what you already know. I’m here to tell you that triple digit salaries and five car garages are not “anything.” This is happiness as most people know it. This, right here. Paper. Cut out a rectangle. Color it green. Add a few hundred watermarks and some numbers. Do you see it? Good. Now multiply it by a few hundred. A few thousand. Fuck it, a few million. There you have it. Are you happy yet? Amazing, isn’t it? Happiness, that is. Something most people spend their lives trying to find, but go all the wrong ways. The signs, all of them, pointing towards your destination. But here you are, taking the wrong turns. Running red lights. Breaking speed limits. Parking in someone else’s spot. You idiot.

Unfortunately, this is where most people stop. Right here, when they are introduced to the bittersweet taste of realization. But you won’t stop. You can’t. Most people take solace in the fact that their lives are accomplishing something. You don’t. They avert their eyes from truth, because let’s be honest (for once); truth is not what we want. We want people to lie to us. It’s all we want. All you want. Lies, and purpose. Mix the two together and you’ve got yourself a very large cup of motivational coffee. Or latte. Or mocha. Or whatever the fuck it is you order at Starbucks every morning on your way to work. Nothing motivates people more than being lied to and given a purpose. It might be inaccurate to say that lies and purpose have given way to more corrupt and worthless lives than anything else in history, but I’m going to say it anyway. And you’ll probably believe it. You idiot.

Watching stock prices rise and fall. Designing architectural masterpieces. Arguing cases. Saving lives. You were told, growing up, that these were honorable professions. They were something that you should aspire to be, to do. They meant something. Why? Don’t ask why. Just make your money and be happy. You were also told, growing up, that a fat fuck dressed in a red suit came down your chimney once a year to give you presents. Why? Don’t ask why. Just open your presents and be happy. You idiot.

This whole idea seems wrong, doesn’t it? It should. Or maybe it shouldn’t. You decide. You tell me if waking up at six in the morning every Monday and going to your piece of shit job is happiness. Every Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Hell, Saturday and Sunday too. It’s what makes you happy, right? You tell me whether sticking that worn down, faded key into the same lock everyday is what you really want. I didn’t think so. So what do you really want? Tough question when there are no limits. Especially if a stranger asks it. In reality, that question is easily answered by most people, and here’s why; boundaries. Black and white. What you want and what you can have. It’s all been programmed into you. What you really want. It’s because “they” have set boundaries on your thoughts. Who’re “they?” Everyone you’ve ever known. Your friends, your enemies, your heroes. It’s a psychological fence that tells you what’s acceptable and what’s not. Setting patterns in your brain and controlling it that way. That’s why you always want what you can’t have. Always have what you don’t want. You greedy fuck. You know exactly where I’m going with this. You know how you’re going to spend your life and probably regret it. You know how this story, your life, will end. But just incase you forgot, I’m here to remind you. Now press play.

[Tea on tuesday]

There hadn’t been any rain in Savéjö for three years when Henry Bastien returned from the war. There was so much that he wanted to share with his wife, Marie, but the oppressive heat and parched earth and memories of what he’d done stood as a concrete wall between them. The couple could not couple and instead resigned themselves to lie in bed in their underwear, not touching, as if bridging that impeachable rift between them would cause such an exertion that they each would succumb to heat stroke or dehydration.

When, finally, Marie said, “Tell me about the war.”

“What about it?” said Henry.

“Just a story to make us feel better”

Henry was silent for a little while as he considered the request. The chasm between them was so broad that he feared that if he leapt then he would go tumbling down the ravine walls out of all contact with Marie and into the likely combination of a vat of rum and old age, but he had no choice and closed his eyes and jumped.

“We hadn’t slept and Colonel Joseph had us slogging through the jungle humidity and heat for three days when we finally broke for a day of rest at a wide river. The air stunk like rotten vegetables and never moved. We pitched our tents and took off our boots, and we were lying there in the soggy sand when I saw an army of ants marching along the banks. Those ants!” he exclaimed, “They weren’t marching to war like we were. No, they were playing tiny instruments of grass and leaves and pygmy sticks. The leader ant was waving his baton around and tapping his six legs to music I could not yet hear. There were ants with drums and trumpets and saxophones. They weren’t really instruments so much as the crude approximation of instruments that ants are liable to make out of twigs and grass. And all the ants were singing and reveling in their rapture as two ants marched or danced behind the rest. One was in a stunning cheesecloth gown and the other a bark top hat.”

“Oh, a little ant wedding!” said Marie.

“Yes, a little ant wedding. Then, like when a friend points out a face in a rock or cloud you can’t help but see only that when you look at it, that’s how I heard there music. It was terrible and engrossing and wonderful, and then I heard their wedding song. I’m ashamed to say that our music will never sound as sweet again. The asynchronous voices and drums and flute created a cacophony that enveloped the entire forest. There were no more chirping birds, making their mating calls, or crickets rubbing their legs together. There was just the celebration of one ant and another. I was sure that the sudden influx of music would draw my fellow soldiers over and ruin the whole thing, but when I looked around they were all playing cards or drinking rum or sleeping on their packs with their hats over their heads. So, I sat and watched and enjoyed the procession of ants all to myself. I watched them until the groom ant carried his wife ant into the little ant tunnels and there was silence for a moment that seemed to drag on only for a little while longer than it should have before the activity of the forest consumed my senses again.”

“That is a wonderful story,” Marie said. Her face was different. The hard lines that had been chiseled onto her face by worry and his absence had faded if only a little bit.

“That’s not the end, though.” Henry paused for second or two unsure whether he should leave well enough alone and let the chasm he had just crossed fracture again or say what he must say. “No, that is not the end. We spent two days building a bridge to cross the river. After we were done and resting for the last time in a long while before we would march again a stranger on a burro came jerking, as people riding donkeys do, across the bridge. He wore a simple straw hat and muddy brown pants and asked if he could speak with the colonel. The lieutenants laughed at him and said, ‘the colonel cannot be bothered to talk to a farmer. He is in the middle of a war.’ The man insisted that it was important, but the lieutenants would not be dissuaded. This went on with one party raising their voice a little to the other party and then vice versa and always they repeated what they had said at the very start of it all. I was afraid that the lieutenant with the green cap was going to shoot the poor man dead, but then the colonel stepped out of the woods with his roll of toilet paper and his boots untied and asked what all the fuss was about. And, the whole thing began again with the peasant farmer asking if he might talk with the colonel and the lieutenants shouting that, ‘that is not how things are done.’ Thankfully though, the colonel acquiesced and showed the man into his tent. They were in there for several hours before the man in the straw hat and muddy pants came out and got back on his burro and jerked back across the bridge. The colonel remained in his tent for a long while, and then came out and called us all to attention. ‘I have just spoken to the leader of the resistance,’ he said. ‘There has been too much blood shed from our countrymen for too trivial reasons, so we will end this tomorrow. Sleep well tonight for tomorrow we fight.’ The colonel then went back into his tent and the lieutenants stood around the soldiers busied themselves by cleaning their rifles and pistols and bayonets. I could not sleep that night. Not because I feared death or that I might have to kill a former friend but that I might never hear the wedding song of ants again or march with you into ant wedding ant tunnels, so I snuck away during the night because I am a coward. The morning came and the soldiers strapped on their helmets and the colonel loaded his ankle pistol and sharpened his saber and they marched across the bridge. I laid waiting in the tall grass in the forest shade while the battle was fought. There were screams and gurgling blood and gunshots and rockets, and then the forest sounds reclaimed the environment once again with the catcalls of birds and the rubbing of cricket legs. Then the man in the straw hat and muddy pants rode his donkey back across the bridge that had been built by men that were now dead. He walked into the Colonel’s tent and came back out carrying a wooden box; he mounted his burro then and rode herky-jerky back across the bridge, so I came home.”

Henry was distraught after having faced his inner shame, confronted again by his failure to honor his imagined commitment as a man.
Marie only smiled and said, “You don’t owe anything to them. You made your choice and they made theirs.”

Henry looked at Marie. His concerns were but a raindrop in the maelstrom of her calm.

“Come to bed and hold me tight,” she said.

That was the moment of conception of George Bastien. It rained in Savéjö for the next nine months.

[Ham n Cheese]

Haven't read the last 3 updates, just eXarc's. And man did I feel like I was reading Chuck P there that it wasn't even funny. Perhaps a little grimmer Chuck but I could def tell you had been influenced by him.

That said I liked where you started, I got the point a little quicker than it took to finish it up, but most things are like that. Was that an idea for a book or what?

[dak]

Wrote this the other day because girls I skeet on keep wanting to date but don't understand I'm a tiger out there and can't be held down by some broad. I keep copies in my briefcase at all times now. So far one has agreed with it and four called me an asshole and will probably key my car and plant cocaine in my room.

1.1. Q - Why don't you have a girlfriend?

A - I feel that the sole purpose of having a monogamous relationship is to procreate and maintain a stable environment to raise offspring in. I believe that this objective is the only constructive reason for all lasting sexual relationships between a man and woman. On the subconcious level a sexual relationship that does not have the intent of creating offspring is doomed to failure. The looming subliminal tension for successful procreation will inevitably create a strain on any underlying friendships that may have existed beforehand. Monogamy without a glimmering hope of offspring is simply impossibly difficult for most people.

1.2. Q- What of love? Can't there be more then the physical bond?

A - Everything a healthy human does is based around preservation of their genetic material. In all organisms the need to reproduce takes presidence in the hierarchy of their needs. To most creatures this reason alone is sufficent but for many people the idea of basing existence around this concept alone seems base and trivial. This is where the concept of love comes in. Love in a platonic sense serves as a mask used to hide the true intent of a persons actions from themselves. It takes a specific personality/world-view to embrace the notion of true love, typically characteristic of individuals who demand higher purpose but are unable/unwilling to employ logic instead relying upon suspension of belief. These individuals simply accept that what they feel is stemming from some pseudo-divine notion of cosmic order rather then their base animalistic urges. There are of course exceptions but it seems that those who find true love are often the same individuals who can accept god without proof. Ultimately love is a evolutionary response developed to appease the human conscious. A ploy to convince us that there is reason to live other then the seemingly pointless task of reproduction and ensuring survival of offspring. Just like pain and fear it is simply a peripheral instinct developed to guide mankind towards efficient reproduction.

1.3. Q - To claim humans do everything for their own end seems contrary to what is seen in society, how can this be?

A - Humans are fragile creatures unable to survive without the assistance of others. We all appreciate our dependence on society and understand the need to maintain order within it. Healthy individuals realize that their genetic material is more secure if they work with society rather then just taking a direct approach to what they desire by cheating/stealing/killing/ect. Social evolution is based around this concept; whatever is perceived as best for ones offspring is the route that will be taken. Most deviant behavior stems from neglect or disbelief in the efficient nature of current social complex in relation to preservation of offspring.

1.4. Q - Doesn't this mentality make you a manipulative exploiter and inherently deleterious to the social order?

A - What more do I take from society then someone who blankets their true intentions with irrational concepts of purpose and meaning? I respect the necessity of maintaining civility with my fellow man for the sake of propagating my genes efficiently. I do not hinder others ability to pursue this goal more then anyone else does. I follow the rules society has created, I just do so for a different reason then most. I even attempt to model my public behavior to reflect standard ideals so people are not made uncomfortable. But when all is said and done I can say with the utmost confidence that I do not nor will I ever love my parents/spouse/children/friends or even myself. I simply accept that they are all integral components in the paramount task of carrying my genetic material to another generation and keeping my offspring alive so they may do the same. It may seem harsh and cold but deep down inside that is all that matters.

1.5. Q - If you view procreation as the sole objective in life why don't you have any children yet?

A - In the modern world survivability is no longer a matter of physical prowess, instead social status and moral view points dictate the viablity of an individual. Having a child before ensuring my survival in society is analogous to an animal chewing off its own leg for no reason. It would hinder me from being a strong presence in society and equate to self destruction. By waiting to have children I am ensuring that they will have a better chance at survival in the long run.

[eXarc]

Originally Posted by Ham n Cheese

Haven't read the last 3 updates, just eXarc's. And man did I feel like I was reading Chuck P there that it wasn't even funny. Perhaps a little grimmer Chuck but I could def tell you had been influenced by him.

That said I liked where you started, I got the point a little quicker than it took to finish it up, but most things are like that. Was that an idea for a book or what?

Nope, wasn't an idea for a book...an idea for a book I have I'll be posting a bit later. Just something I wrote in about 40 mins and decided to post for no real reason other than to share. But yeah, it is kind of a bit darker/repetitive than Chuck P, but I was definitely 'under the influence'.

[WarderX]

I just found this while cleaning. It appears to be from grade school. I was the most awesome kid, ever.

Secret Cabbage Magic
The fabled knights of the round sat at the round table to enjoy a feast. Yamcha was peering into the room using a scope from the future. You see, Yamcha is a reporter from the future trying to find out how the Knights got killed. He had on a stealth armor suit, it consealed (lol spelling) his being seen from the people of the past. He was looking through his scope at the table, and turned on the camera. He video taped for a while and nothing happened. Then King Arthor grabbed his throat and started coughing. Yamcha ran into the room to get a better shot of the action. The servers that had on robes untied them and revealed themselves. The drew their swords and stabbed King Arthor threw his heart. The other knights started to choke. Their throats burst open and blood flew everywhere. They all died.

"All 13 ---- huh? only 12? That's odd" Yamcha thought. Yamcha took a glance at what must have killed them. He took a piece of cabbage and put in in an analyzer. It read:

"THIS CABBAGE
highly combustable
Just add water"

"So that's how the deed was done" said Yamcha. By now guards had entered the room. Beep beep beep the sound was next to his ear.

The End

I don't know what the fuck most of this means, but I wish I had 1/100th of the creativity I had when I was 9 years old.

[Ham n Cheese]

So what, the guards had horns?

[Sarvius]

This isn't something that I'd ever have considered before I read this thread. I'm a creative writing major in my final year of college and could use some good critquing for my portfolio before I send it off with my applications for grad school. Is anyone interested in giving me some in-depth feedback (which, of course, I will gladly return for your pieces) on approximately 20-30pgs. of non-traditional fiction.

I'll post some of my stuff up here later, but I'd really like to get some in-depth critiquing from an outside perspective if anyone's game.

[Tea on tuesday]

When is it due? I've got finals comming up...uhh next week maybe, and I've got the freaking novel writing class..creative writing minor what up, so if I have a week after that I can do a line by line work over. Just PM me.

Also, no return critiques required, I'm just trying to get through this class at the moment and at this point couldn't give a shit what problems I may have. Fucking 70 pages for the begining of the novel, 5 pages for the synopsis, a cover letter, and 80 pages of critiques is way too much for a damn 3 credit hour class (semester). Also, what exactly do you mean by non-traditional fiction?

[Sarvius]

This is one of my 'non-traditional' stories that I was talking about. I figured that it might be better to just post it instead of trying to describe it. Yes, I meant to write it without commas.

Remembering the Day

I think he said something along the lines of GET THE FUCK OFF THE FLOOR OR THE SHEEP WILL EXPLODE as he hunkered behind the couch. He tackled me out of the doorway with one giant leap knocking me flat on my ass and rolling us nearly to the stairs. Sheep? I’m pretty sure he said yeah dumbass sheep – the place is FUCKING CRAWLING with them.

Fucking crawling.

Yeah that’s what happened – that’s what he said. Or something like that. And I remember punching him as hard as I could right in the nose. I punched him so hard and there was a dull thud – it wasn’t a crack like in comic books or a smack or thwap or whatever they use. It sounded like when I used to hit the pears off my grandma’s tree with a baseball bat screaming HOME RUN! as the pears splattered across the yard drawing in the bees and the bugs and making the ground sticky to walk across especially in bare feet. Yeah that’s right. I punched him so hard and he cried and it made the floor turn red and he cried and cried and I left.

I remember walking down the stairs and maybe stopping for some lemonade. I dug around in the kitchen and found a candy bar – Snickers I think – on top of the fridge which I used a stool to get on top of. Sometimes you just need some candy to hold you over you know? I think I threw away the wrapper but it might be in my other jacket at home I hope I didn’t leave it on the counter – mama hates when I leave junk laying around. I remember for sure running out of the house at full speed and tripping over the stairs as I tried to leave. I fell flat on my face silly me. Scraped me all up – my elbow and my knee hurt so bad. I definitely remember that because I still have the scratches but they are covered with Mario bandaids – mama always told me that they’d keep me from scarring but truth be told I’ve always liked to show off my scars.

I remember getting back up and looking around making sure no one saw me – silly me. I rode my bike home it was chained to the tree that had the tree house on top of it. Well it wasn’t really much of a tree house but more like a bunch of branches we would sit on and pretend to shoot the neighbors because that’s what he said was really cool to do. He was bleeding when I unchained my bike though so no tree house today.

I rode my bike quickly down the side of the road – mama always told me to ride on the left side of the road so people could see me in their cars but I didn’t want anyone to see my scrapes and my hands all bloody from punching him right in the nose. So I’m pretty sure I rode my bike down the right side of the road so no one could see me and I think it worked out A-OK!

When I was riding home you’ll never guess what I saw it was so perfect. There was a mangy mutt (that’s what mama calls ‘em!) on the side of the road and he wasn’t too big. So I think I took the mangy mutt with me on my bike. I’m trying to be honest here but you know I can’t remember exactly how I got him home. He was kinda too big for me and my bike so I think I carried him in my lap. He had a collar with a few tags and I have it on me are you sure you don’t want to see? I keep it on my ankle but I had to punch a hole in it so it would fit okay because it was just a little too big.

So I took the mangy mutt home and silly him he tried to get away from me! Geez what a silly mangy mutt! Anyways I did just like I always did with the mangy mutts I helped him out like always – at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything different but I can’t be totally sure you know? Mama always told me that you can never be all the way sure of anything. So I took the mangy mutt and I used the clippers real good on it shaved it down to the skin. This is my least favorite part cause it’s messy and not much fun. Anyways then I used the pliers on him – it worked real good. He yelled at me but I know how to get him back so I used his collar. Yeah the one I got around my ankle. I used that around his snout and he couldn’t do much after that. So I used the big pliers in the basement like I always do and I made sure that mangy mutt wouldn’t wander around no more. Silly thing wimpered like crazy but you can’t just have mangy mutts roaming around the streets can you? Didn’t think so!

That silly thing was so torn up. Mama said that you’d never lived till you felt pain – want to see my legs? Mama told me not to show off those scars but I think you’re cool enough.

Anyways after that I went and got Mrs. Hannock’s little poodle from next door and that silly thing (she’s not a mangy mutt because she’s a poodle!) she had a feast and I gave it to her because she is just so precious and I let the mangy mutt finish itself off below the house where I put all of the mangy mutts I find!

Man that day was so great! And then I heard a pound pound pound on my door and people asking me about Mama. I told ‘em that I helped her live and I told ‘em I put her with the mangy mutts downstairs. Isn’t that great? And now here I am and I’m pretty sure I locked the door to the house – could you make sure of that for me? And make sure the windows are closed – mama always told me that the windows needed to be closed to keep the cold out.

[Sarvius]

Here's one more I wrote last semester. It's about a real raccoon that I used to pass every day on the way to class.

This is all Just a Roadside Memorial to Humanity.

There is a raccoon ripped to shreds on the railroad tracks. It has been there for months.

At first it was disgusting, fly-covered, rotting. I walked by, avoiding the head first and the body that lay a few feet beyond. It stared at me, jaw gaping, black eyes ripping. I imagined the raccoon scampering around, looking for food, not knowing what to do when the light came screaming down the track. The wheels creaked, and when the horn blasted, the raccoon looked up from the rail. The raccoon looked up, stared into the conductor’s eyes, pleading, and then there was nothing but black.

Now I walk by the raccoon every day. It has been a long time since the maggots and flies stopped gnawing. It has been months since I could see blood drying upon the rocks -- making them sticky to walk across. During the summer, the humidity kept the raccoon’s skin from drying. Now that it is fall, the skin is a brown-black, and the fur has been picked off, bit by bit. The hide lays motionless beside the rail.

It seems that everyone has forgotten about the raccoon, though I will not. The raccoon has slowly become a part of me. I walk by, and I defile the only space it has. I have come to respect the raccoon, yet I do not trust it. I have grown paranoid of it; in I fear that my destiny will be the same. The raccoon lays on the tracks and seems to be leaving me with each tuft of hair that is ripped from the pelt by passersby carelessly trotting down the track.

When the raccoon gets covered by snow, I will think of it. My footsteps will dodge around it, because even when I can no longer see it, I know the raccoon remains. I will come visit in the spring, when the snow melts, and I hope it will be there. If not, perhaps I'll put up one of those tacky roadside memorials -- the crosses with silk flowers attached that become tattered by the weather.

I will remember the raccoon, because we are all raccoons, and every day we look up and the noise and the light are coming closer, charging. Every night when you go to bed, remember, everything goes black.

[Ham n Cheese]

I have no idea what I just read there Sarvius.

[Sarvius]

Makes me wonder...is that a bad thing?

[Dencredria[FH]]

I too have a portfolio due... next week? I should really find out when that is... But, I wouldn't mind some feedback on at least two pieces I have. One is more refined than the other, but both are worth reading... I think. Here's a sample to tide you over, seeing how I can't get any work done today.



I think too much, I think to myself. I'm certain that I have some learning disability. That my mind isn't quite right, yet... I can't place my finger on what it is. Always something to think about when you're doing nothing, when you're doing something, when you're doing anything. Tick-tock, tick-tock says the clock as the day slips by with my mind slowly peeling back the facade of a preconceived self-awareness that isn't aware of the problems it's truly plagued with.

I'm going blind. Halos accompany any light source these days. The corneas are swelling due to the lack of air they receive. Pity that you can't see colors anymore when you're blind. "Pity you can see yourself in the mirror anymore when you're blind," I say outloud, as my reflection stares back. My mind won't last much longer if my eyes go. What use is a mind, or eyes for that matter if you don't have one or the other?

Food has begun to lose its taste for me. The flavors run together to form a chalky residue that rests at the back of my throat. I reach out with my right hand to grab the glass of water sitting on my nightstand. "Give me anything to douse this taste!" I scream. Anything to rinse it down my throat! I hit the table hard, sending the glass into a wobble. My hand has fallen asleep and I can't grip anything. I roll onto my right side and pull on the lamp chain with my left hand. Ah, success! My eyes have trouble adjusting to the sudden bombardment of light. The halos shroud the room. White. Quiet, white. Almost serene. I find the glass and gulp down the quarter of its remnants. Eyes still blurred, I can hardly make out my own hands in front of my face. Wait... WAIT! WHAT THE FUCK!!! THERE IS NO RIGHT HAND! This much blurriness is clear. I somehow managed to lose my hand between the time I went to bed and now. The mind is racing in an attempt to catch up with the heart. The blood is pumping faster and faster as the anxiety rises up the back of my spine. A vein bulges near my temple then begins pulsating. My screams of fear are met with a mimic down the hall. Like two dogs howling in the night. One and then the other. Then simultaneously.

A friendly, almost comforting voice enters the room, but my mind can't remember who it belongs to. My eyes won't let me see who has come. I cannot touch them, or hold them close. They're there. I feel their breath on my neck. But I can't see, feel, or taste them. Is it someone I loved? Or a caretaker who loves me? "What am I doing?" I ask myself. I answer my own question. I'm having a heart attack. I'm dying. Or so I think...