Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Story Excerpt #5

NUMBAH FAYYVE. NUMBAH FAYYVE. That was my best JLennon Revolution 9 impression. Should I start a cover band? I mean, my boyfriend already has Beatles' hair and plays the bass. And I am oft mistaken for a handsome British boy with certifiable musical genius and a charming, open smile.

Hello again, from Starbucks, the bane of my existence (tragedy: I can't afford to go to Intelligentsia for my lunch breaks), where I am currently sitting across from some kind of bizarre date: an old man with powerful cologne and an old woman with a grating laugh and the tightest plastic surgery I have ever seen. It's mad distracting! I just want to watch her mouth open and close and open and close in that waxy face. Shiver.

Well, this is a story about some fog in a city. This excerpt is not the end, but almost the end (there's one paragraph after this). I really like the title: I have named it "Four Men Underwater." Aside from that, this story and my life in general are nothing but meaningless snow flurries, charging recklessly into the eyes of the young professional class. NOT a metaphor.

Ross walked over to the body.

The sea-change was happening already: the drunk man's eyes were barnacled with silt, and his hair floated around his face in a greenish halo, and a steady stream of silver mist flowed from his mouth. His blood, which was everywhere, smelled like whiskey and salt. A loose intestine eddied in the current.

Something dark blocked out the streetlamp. A huge humpback whale swam slowly above them, trailing yards of krill from its baleen plates. Its cry reverberated through the street. The body of the dead man jerked and sighed, the silver fog ballooning from its mouth. The humpback stopped swimming. Laboriously, it turned around and swam toward the asphalt. The smell of salmon and herring filled the air, and Ross could hear the muscular breath of its blowhole. Gently, the humpback nuzzled the dead man, lifting his body onto its great barnacled snout. There was an eddy of fog, and the whale and the dead man swam off, leaving only a flower of viscera on the pavement.

Ross walked back onto the sidewalk, reaching for the cigarettes, but there was nothing in his pocket.

I like to put Shakespearean references (aka I like to straight-up steal other pplz sentences) into everything I do. I also like the word "viscera!" And I like "viscid" and "viscous." I may have used one of those words in every story I've written so far this month. WHAT.

By the Way, (c) Red Hot Chili Peppers: I need to tell everybody something. I'm working on my sixth story, and it is absolutely GENIUS. Why can I say this? Because I didn't come up with the plot. My brilliant brother John did, during a marathon brainstorming session at the family farm, and it is seriously the most innovative, creepy, brilliant-genius thing I've ever heard of. I am HONORED that he is feigning indifference at the way I am blatantly stealing his story. Basically, I said, "Lizzun John. Ahm gun rite ur story. But you can rite it at the same time! Two storeez?" and he was like "Um, why are you an alcoholic Mississippian farmer?" and I said "THAT WAS ACTING, BABY!" and he was like "but I'm the theater major," and I said "I AM A TRIPLE THREAT RENAISSANCE WOMAN!" and he was like "wut's ur other talent?" and I said "TAPESTRY WEAVING!" and then I looked around the room and realized I was talking to the shadowy phantoms of my imagination yet again. I have no brother! I have no family! Henry the Eighth will never buy my erotic fourteenth century tapestries!

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You are truly great.