BlackHoleEnvy

Some nasty language in here. Critiquery welcome. Brutality a plus. Does this work on any level? Or should I include more Niacin in my diet? Regards.


The sky is fixed and dilated. We can see it from our window of frothy rust, and we know that it is so.

I order a latté, my second, iced. The waitress is only an invertebrate smile. Look for yourself and tell me she does not lack an obvious skull.

The froth recedes, though the rust remains awake, peering with my eyes. Through it we can just begin to make out the blue sheen of rigor mortis, and note the time of death. A scalpel traces a spiral into the crux of another prostrate cloud. I’d like to ask our invertebrate waitress who she thinks is holding the scalpel. Who would ascend to such a task? And who with such steady hands? But a waitress with no skull will never have these answers, and I would not want to hear what she has to say.

A storm over the bay clears its throat and moves on past, unwilling to interrupt: is it not obvious we have ever so much more work to begin?
You there with the face. Quit playing with your food and hand the Ozone the shears to remove the fruiting patch. The one where she was touched—God’s errant stepdaughter, howling at the sailors of Yore. Didn’t you hear? She put up a fight, kicking and screaming until the spiral was all punched through. And now the Ozone searches for traces of forced entry.

The waitress drops her tray. Shards of one-day bone skitter across the un-rusty floor, where the once-window froth has gone to sleep. Like a tooth, I am jarred loose from meditation. Dutifully, you redirect my attention to the prostrate cloud, the one shaped like a Scooner. The one where the errant stepdaughter howled. Silly stillborn girl—you know too little:

There are no scalpels tall enough to trace such a spiral. Ozone kills, but never cuts. And a waitress sans skull is no waitress at all.

“What the fuck is a prostrate cloud?” I ask.
“Are you going to eat your home fries?” you answer.

Hand me the latex gloves. It’s going to be a long autopsy.

__________________
...ARE BELONG TO US!

NoWorries

Eeek. Did you ever see the Simpson's episode where Homer is "Mr. Plow"? They do a SUPER-artsy commercial to save his business and no-one understands it's direct meaning.

That's how I felt while reading it, just a wild and crazy orbiting jumble-o-thoughts barely tied to a central nucleus. But in the end, I liked it, even if I didn't even remotely understand.

I could tell that the main character is balancing on the ledge of reality with babbling insanity gaping before him. If that was what you were going for, then you did a great job. While I liked it, I still kinda feel empty not knowing exactly what was going on, I didn't really get a closure from the piece.

Is the "Autopsy" line actually an autopsy, or just cutting into lunch?

My suggestions:

1. Simply -
Revise that line!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ever-so-much is rule #148 of things not to put in writing, and rule #1 of things not to say, or think, EVER! Without ever-so-much it's not a bad line, but GOD! I HATE THAT PHRASE!!!!!!!!!!

2. A few lines to explain what is truly going on might be nice. Without the "'Are you going to eat your home fries?' you answer." I would believe strongly that they guy is going crazy doing his job at the morgue, but that line jarred me and I got confused.

I love all of the crazy metaphores. Overall, good job...except for confusing me!

Spaztikfingers

Hey Black,
I've read a few of your posts before and I like your style of writing. Touch of William S Burroughs perhaps? Like a swarmy hallucination, can't really comment on whether it's right or wrong but I'll try a bit.
I know where you were going with frothy but I don't think it flows to well with the idea 'rust'. I automatically think of brittle, breaking, pieces, loose, shards, uncohesiveness when I think of rust. 'Frothy' doesn't really encapsulate that for me. The only problem with this, though, is that 'frothy' does seem to flow with the rest of the scene, ie. the cloud, the Schooner, even the ozone. So really, I'm not only at a loss, but am inept too!
Love the lines:
Like a tooth, I am jarred loose from meditation.

A storm over the bay clears its throat and moves on past

and that the whole piece kind of smacks you in the face. Good imagery!
Don't stop writing!

__________________
...ideas only cease when the fear of acknowledging them grows to strong
...oh, and when I miss dinner

BlackHoleEnvy

@NoWorries
Yar, I saw that episode. Classic. As for the phrase you hate, I seem to have misplaced my copy of the Writers' Rulebook, but I beleive omitting the word "ever" would alleviate your pain.

I like your mortician-gone-crazy interpretation. Why not? I've been watching a lot of Six Feet Under lately, so maybe that's where the autopsy/mortician crap comes from? Who knows. While the "homefries" line may be a bit of a deal-breaker, I think it intones a certain lack of communication.

@Spaztik

Thanks. The only Burroughs I've read is Naked Lunch, which gave me daymares. It was not a bad book, but I would never recommend it to anyone.

Upon review, I cannot be sure the rust was actually there, on the window, so it does seem like I could scrape it off without disturbing the piece.

__________________
...ARE BELONG TO US!

demonic_harmonic

that was sick.



i loved it.