Parenthetical

I (the narrator, who (in this case) happens also to be (as far as you (the reader (I realize that is (very) presumptuous of me; (I used to think (though my stance has changed (somewhat) recently) semicolons were a fun (or at least esoteric (a fantastic word that I probably (incorrectly) use) enough to merit praise from the (grammatically) uneducated) form of punctuation) perhaps the story was read to you aloud) of this text) can tell) the author) ate a sandwich (tuna fish (a pretty (and majestic) animal (whose majesty (not to be confused with Her (referring to the Queen of England, though you could easily (and probably should) substitute any number of female persons (might I recommend the mighty (and tuneful) Bette Midler?) for all I care) Majesty) instills guilt deep in my heart (not literally in my heart (and not literally guilt, either. More like (vague) remorse). The heart here is a metaphor (how poetic, the heart being a metaphor...) for uhh, whatever part of your being (concise description is beyond me, as you can tell) feels guilt) every time I consume its meat), all reflective electric blue scales), for those that care) today.


Just a little experiment. I was trying to make it much longer, but got so completely bogged down I couldn't go on. It was surprising how difficult it was keeping track of the parenthesis. Another goal was to actually tell a story within the parenthesis, to introduce some sort of developing narrative that would make the whole thing worthwhile. I failed, but am interested to try again. Bonus points if you can figure out what the original sentence is.

Gravesite

What am I supposed to feel? Like there is some connection between myself and the piece of marble at my feet? There isn’t. The engraved letters just spell a name, they do not represent the man six feet below them. There is nothing here. Nothing. No matter how much I want there to be. Somewhere underneath my feet is a decaying body. I’m tempted to dig it up, but I know that won’t change anything. The body is only a vehicle for the person inside. And yet, here I am. Standing in an empty field of dead grass, talking to a stone rectangle on a sunny day in January. What do you do all day, I ask the stone, get shat on by geese? I don’t know what else to do here. I’m not sure why I even came. Curiosity, I guess. But now I feel like I need to have some sort of experience, like I need to pray out loud or reconcile past differences or cry my eyes out. I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I take an apple out of my jacket pocket and sit down in the grass and goose shit. I eat my apple in silence, watching the leafless branches of a nearby tree sway in the wind. When I’m done with my apple I stand up, put the core on the corner of the gravestone and walk to my car.

Past Life Resurfaced

I met Kayla Hergert in the library on campus. Except it wasn’t the library on campus. I was dreaming. It was late, somewhere around 10:30, and I was sitting at a table reading some unknown volume. Next to me was a group of students I did not recognize. Until she appeared, like a ship gliding quietly through a bank of fog. She was wearing a yellow shirt, tight blue jeans. Her hair was the same as I had remembered it ten years ago, though it didn’t seem out of date or obsolete. She recognizes me and approaches. Oddly, we don’t hug, we don’t exchange any dialogue. Instead we leave the library and return to her place, motivated by unresolved attraction. I know we talk along the way, but not about anything important or worthwhile. We drive to her house, in her car. I remember now that we talked briefly about the last time we met. Tenth grade. She drove me through the school parking lot to my car. I tell her I remember that I was wearing a brown Beastie Boys shirt. I don’t remember what she was wearing.
We get to her place, go inside. She turns on a dim lamp, one that does little more than suggest the interior of the small apartment. She puts her things down on the couch, which is situated immediately to the right of the door. She puts her things down and walks off into some dark corridor. I’ll be right back, she says.
I stand, awkward, next to the couch, attempting to make out the geography of the living room. After a few minutes I hear the faint footsteps of bare feet on carpet and turn to see her emerge out of the dark, the pale orange glow from the lamp soaked into her skin. She is naked, her hands at her sides, eyes reflecting the lamp as though it were a candle and not a light bulb. She bites her lower lip, cracks a half smile and turns around, sinks into the black hallway. I know this is a dream, but I follow her anyway. I leave the lamps orange orb and plunge into darkness. Soon I realize that I’m lost. I call out her name.
Before me is a maze of equally black hallways, their presence suggested by doorways of pure darkness. I call out her name. It’s cold. I hear her voice, a warm whisper in my ear. She calls my name. Her breath thaws my frigid neck and I turn, expecting to find her in front of me. She isn’t there. I’m immediately pulled out the maze by my ankle, like a rabbit caught in a snare or a calf lassoed. I claw the ground, for purchase. My nails dig into the floor. I feel a cavernous abyss approaching and I know that I’m about to be pulled into oblivion. When I reach the edge I thrust my hand out in a desperate attempt to grab hold of something, anything, to stop my fall. I feel her, feel her hand grab mine, feel her fingers interlock with mine, feel those fingers slip through mine like snakes through grass. I fall.

Trains

The pain in my frontal lobe tells me it’s happening again. Little lightning bolts striking inwards, licking my cerebral cortex with quick, electric tongues.


These two sentences represent the only fiction I've produced in over a month. I thought I could go somewhere with this, and I probably can, but the train had trouble leaving the station, so to speak. Fortunately the massive check I received from Walkabout for my story means I don't have to submit new work for some time. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot that Walkabout is a free journal exclusive to the CU campus and has no money to publish, let alone pay, its writers. Guess it's time to push the damn train out of the station.

Cat

I saw a cat get run over by a car today. I saw the small black object leave the curb at top speed on a course that deposited it directly under the rear tire of a big black SUV. The cat’s momentum immediately ceased, and I could see what I thought was the tail blowing in the wind. When I passed the cat I discovered that its tail was not blowing in the wind. That cat was not dead, and what I thought was its tail was in fact its right front leg, twitching violently as the animal engaged in a desparate battle with death. The front half of its body still moving, convulsions coming in spastic waves, building up to a final jerk, one last siezure, and I looked directly into its wild eye, wide and on fire, absolute shock pouring out around the edges of the eyeball, soaking the pavement with terror and panic instead of blood and gore. Four seconds of complete destruction. All this less than a block from my apartment. I went home and threw up, the cat’s sinlge eye staring up at me from the toilet bowl.

Altitude

A woman sits next to me in this soon to be airborne cylinder. She eats an apple and has expensive looking boots. Coffee was a poor choice before boarding. The energetic sweats can be hard to explain in close quarters. Takeoff pushes too much blood to the back of my head and I think I might explode. The ground falls away and all I see are soft drops of amber light absorbed into a black paper towel, arranged in neat squares and rectangles. Or maybe the lights are under water, or ice. Impossible to discern their origin--just observe the result of their illumination. The glow, the product of their purpose. But now we’re so high, concealed by elevation, and the needles of light are swallowed by an impossible distance.
She hides the apple core between the seats and I think I’m in love again. She closes her eyes, to sleep or to pretend to sleep.
I can see other lights in their holding patterns, little orbs drawing tedious ellipses in the sky. The ground gets closer. Closer. And I wonder what will be the last thing I see. What will be the final image burned into my retinas, still visible through opaque eyelids.
Altitude is marriage--power and aerodynamics. Engines and fuel. Maybe the lights below are fluorescent drops of paint or Predator blood.
Lost contact, swallowed whole. Depth / Darkness. Columns of broken bones scratch at the swollen bellies of clouds, invisible when it’s as dark as it is now. Catch the stewardess counting change with her fingers, the man across the aisle mixing Jack and Coke from tiny plastic containers. The same awkward conversations and the smell of many humans packed close together. Baby cries. Proximity. Altitude.