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A story of a dead potato
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A story of a dead potato |
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Rainee Junior Member
since 2003-04-19
Posts 10 |
A story of a dead potato. Epigraph:The dying person looks neither attractive, nor noble. They look pitiful. And that pity disgusts me. The inside of a cellar felt dark and silent, just like a coffin, almost as cold as a crypt. Brick walls, covered with a solution, to keep in the death-like coldness. Any living essence that exidently got into this stone prison soon begins to feel the cold, smooth suffices under their fingertips, numbing, creeping along the fingers onto the palms of their hands; penetrate into the unsuspecting body, creeping up their nose, into the throat and down, into the stomach, tying it into a uncomftroble knot. And each one tries to free themselves by quickly exhaling warmth that falling with soft, moist clouds of their shaky lips. I doubt, that anyone will agree to willingly stay down here. And only the potato which have been pulled out of it's warm earthly womb, that had been nourished by the rays of the giving sun. It lays in a corner on the sand, left to slowly die. And with time, it will, silently, slowly, painfully. Fresh strong sprouts, so proud of their whiteness and hardness, are sure, they will remain this way eternally. They look over at their wrinkled, dried up neighbors and repeat to themselves that it will never happen to them. But the cold takes over. It will penetrate under a dense brown thin skin, creeping away over the white crispy contents, liquefying it, transforming what ones was a strong plant, trying to survive, into pudding-like rotten mass. The thin skin is soon covered by wrinkles, the sprouts become spineless, apathetic. All it takes is hardly any compressing of the hand for the skin to rip and cracks, to fill, with liquidy-white moisture in dim light reminding you of something along the lines of "sweet puss". Press down slightly stronger, and the rotting flesh moves aside, covering you with a rich stupefying smell of decomposition, exposing muddy slime of dead fabrics and disgusting inhabitants of corpses, the sepulchral worms which are impudently pottering about inside the potato. And this is the way it's always ganna be. With everyone. You see the person is that same potato. Only a whole lot more puss. All deep down in a cellar that's dark and silent, like a coffin, yet not quiet as cold as a crypt. PS.And don't even say that that's not the way it all goes, it's exactly like that, and you know it. ~Rainee |
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SumdayUwillAcheLikeIache Junior Member
since 2003-06-01
Posts 10 |
wooooooooo this is really amazing. i thought it would be some random mad story but it was all great. It's a hard thing to do, writing about death, coffins etc without sinking into those gothic self pitying clichies but you're similie works amzingly  |
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Endlessecho Member
since 2003-09-05
Posts 398I live within myself |
Wow. You did so well with the metaphor. Bringing it to life. Making the comparison just seem like it is there. Makes me think of our cellar when I was little. It scared me, yet my sister and I would still play down there. Trying to be brave I guess. This is a great comparison. |
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merlynh Member
since 1999-09-26
Posts 411deer park, wa |
I was thinking of eating breakfast, and this is what I had to read. I forced myself to read it three times because it deserved the attention. I will have to come back after I have ate and am in a more attentive mood for such writing. You are certainly a writer who can move the reader. If you will excuse me it's my stomach that needs the attention now. Thanks for sharing. |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Yes, indeed, a very telling tale. |
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