Each of these paragraphs is random, and a stand alone. Feel free to read into them all you want. I wrote them about seven months ago.
Lies that deceive me from the truth that I hide from behind the plinth of obscurity. A vagueness surrounds me, forming like the whisper of a cloud, a thought that hasn't formed fully. The synaptic reaction courses through my brain, weaving into being the intricacy of this deranged feeling that the untruth I speak to myself daily is nothing more than a hopeful prayer -- the bread I partake of to fill my stomach and hide my fear.
The stillness of breath crept down her throat in a shudder, like she were puking in reverse. It was painful, this swallowing, as the gush of oxygen flowed in and ate at her lungs, a poisonous cancer she required to live. A disease that she couldn't live without. Coughing ensued, blankets showering over her hunched frame and shivering with a thrill of nervousness. Possessed as she was of her initial mentality, she dragged on her cigarette, blowing the smoke, hazy and insubstantial, away to be batted at by the undercurrent of a breeze. She breathed.
Almost. His grip wasn't quite, his hand slipping, his mind faltering. His will broke, shattering like a blade untempered. He felt himself falling, the ground rising up, a maw full of teeth waiting to swallow him whole, the gurgling laughter of something strange and terrible nearby and far off at once. His eyes slide open, a slash in the skin of their covering, the near perfect orbs crying intensely. Blurred, his vision sprinkled with moisture, he choked on something that sounded like laughter, the wracking sobs writhing down his body as the throes of death grasped and crushed his body. He sat up with a start.
Manicured nails clack like a train, hypnotic rhythm sending distress signals across the desk. Nervous and anxious, a playful hand bats aside hair. Tucked behind an ear and trembling for release, she looks on with crystal eyes, fearful and waiting. Papers shuffled, the man across the way smiles, white teeth portrayed as giant cliffs set in the basilica of pleasant resentment. "I'm sorry, you aren't what we're looking for."
Eyes waver as the picture dies. Blackness crawls up the room, long fingers spreading its inky grasp over the crowd, swelling up and swallowing and chocking and regurgitating the masticated mass of men and woman. The light quivers at first, dim and purposeful, drawing strength as the flux of popcorn pellets dabble along the feet of the passersby.
Something's in the way. Immovable and impassible, blocking the shot. A page is turned, shivering in the fingers, small prints marring a pristine, lacquered surface. The images float along as if by want, colorful and cheerful. Bright smiles plastered into virile facades with gumdrop eyes and plastic lips. Buy me and feel loved, it says.
Hands bumble about in the cold. Frozen, elongated, twisting through the serpentine depths of ill-made gloves, gripping handles and rounds and fumbling. The chill bites, shallow fangs cresting the surface. Streaks of red crest the exposed flesh. A boom resounds, a pale thump prior. He smiles behind the snow-caked scarf, white teeth chattering like a wind-up toy.
Petulant and remorseful, it hangs heavy and grey against the backdrop of the sallow and dulled. Wavering tenderly, shook by the disturbance of a sudden breeze, it glows amid the orange flickering from within.
The insanity that quells my being shutters for an instant, a still frame of momentum. My train of thought caught on the brink of the brick wall in black and white tatters. The image shatters, a mirror reflecting disjointed ideas, jagged and piercing like the shafts of sunlight penetrating through the blinds of my midmorning blunder through wakefulness. A blur, a flash, a blink and momentum is restored, and I am again watching the scenery. No longer from some distant vantage point. The trees fly by, and then the car collides with the oncoming traffic as my horror becomes realized. A stillframe of thought caught in the intrepid waking moment of my own demise. And then the scene ends, brought to a close with the billowing shutter of metal clashing along my frame and the sharp impact and screech and then silence.
A specter flung sideways. Twisted in a parallel fashion, the colors sloughed at 45 degree angles obtrusively in neon-Technicolor. Puke rushed up and backwards over a shoulder as indigo flashes pulsed seizure-like and furious. The world was dizzy. It didn't know which direction it was going, a flat-land set on a top and spinning with all the power it could get. And then falling. Falling with legs turned to mush and bleeding pink rivulets of pepto-bismal. Laughing hysterically as the skateboard flew overhead. Gravity was falling upward. The rush of concrete was happening in real time while everything else moved in a shutter-frame. Off to a side, head squished onto pavement and a clashing, cranking sound as wood spattered grotesquely against a wall off someplace other than here. Splinters rained downward while pebbles flew upward in a dyslexic world that couldn't read the rules of nature.
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