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Black Session: Sleepwalking
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Black Session: Sleepwalking |
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Third Libra Member
since 2003-08-10
Posts 125South Carolina |
Chapter One …6:37 a.m. “I am free.” Those three small words crumbled lightly from his lips and floated across the room like a faint, sweet fragrant. Sprawled on the carpet floor, beside his bed, lied Anthony repeating those words like they were the only that he knew in the English dictionary. “I am free. I am free.” Bigger and bigger the room became as he chanted softly. Stranded; he had become lost in the darkness of his room. Estranged. Even as a pint sized fly landed on his neck, sheepish and searching, he stayed motionless. Certainly he could feel those six stick legs violating the privacy of his skin. But trivial it was to his senses. “I am free. I am free.” To Anthony, the darkness was beautiful. He had grown somewhat in love with the black cloud clouding his room. But maybe it wasn’t exactly the darkness that was the object of his infatuation, but the hidden wonders within the cloud. At least they were wondrous to him. For in the shadows, laced by mystery, danced fluorescent, fluent pixies. They danced and battled vigorously, only to fade and reappear periodically. Their wounds dripped a black blood that corrupted the air, creating a stench so grotesque that the fly shuttered and fell to the ground to die. The blood flooded the room, engulfing all of its contents. It rushed and had eaten Anthony with its dreadful mouth. He stayed in motionlessness, mumbling his personal philosophy. “I am free. I am free.” The blood, so thick, filled his nostrils and mouth. Choking. Choking. His entire existence had been drenched and bathed in the dark blood. It created a bloody seclusion that had fabricated an illusion of much desired freedom. “I am free. I am free.” Suddenly someone rapped on the door and his mother came through. Much to her amazement, she saw Anthony laying on the floor with a stoned face, wide eyes, and whispering. “My God, Anthony,” she mumbled, “What do you think you’re doing? That floor is dirty! Get up from there!” His eyes darted toward his mother with that of a murderous intention. By now he had stopped murmuring his mantra, and had given his mother an undivided attention that was only interrupted by the manic depictions of his mother in tears. Her black attire enwrapped her pale skin, and a black vale masked her tears… a perfect costume for that of a weeping angel playing the part of a fragile widow. For what reason, could be asked. But the answer was unknown even to Anthony. “You heard me. Get off of the ground.” She said this in a softer tone, while she laid a couple of t-shirts and boxers on his bed. “Hurry up. You’re going to be late for school.” And with that, she was gone. Most certainly she would be gone till the early morning. Her excuse? Apparently she had a meeting, or conference, in Charlotte, NC. It didn’t bother (nor matter) to Anthony. He was used to his latchkey kid existence. Within an hour, Anthony had gotten ready for school. Whenever his mother was home, she would always give his a ride to school, herself. But since she was never home, he had to ride the bus. As far as he was concerned, it was a busload of dumbasses. “******* idiots…” The bus beheld hoards of hyenas and banshees. The vehicle itself was considered a weapon of mass destruction. The best way to look at it was Anthony’s personal highway to Hell. As he sat in his seat, waves of cacophonies crashed into his eardrums, as airplanes and white rocks flew through the air. Not-so-controlled chaos seemed to be the general atmosphere. The bus was the natural environment of these shrieking animals. But it didn’t bother (nor matter) to Anthony. He was used to this discord. Life always looks better through the eyes of one’s glasses… Love is only an excuse to hurt and to get hurt... Knowledge brings ye fear. [This message has been edited by Third Libra (08-26-2003 06:46 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2003 Michael Moore - All Rights Reserved | |||
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merlynh Member
since 1999-09-26
Posts 411deer park, wa |
I'll be truthful. A professional writer considers rewrite part of the process knowing it only improves the work. Strongly looking at the point of view and how it communicates the telling of the story. The hardest part growing as a writer is being able to change the way his work is written. A writer is his own critic, a non-working one is one who gives advice and doesn't take his own. Thanks for sharing. |
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Third Libra Member
since 2003-08-10
Posts 125South Carolina |
Thank you for that. Of course I am still working on adding to it, and rewriting as I continue. I am greatful for you advice. |
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