An Oldie
Inanimate Life
The plate devoured the muffins at the same time the coffee machine jumped on the server.
“Writing can be terrible sometimes,” the diner said. “Having no ideas to fall back on is the bane of a writer.” The tea-cup was munching on his daily newspaper while he stared at the street outside.
“There needs to be that spark which will ignite the author’s mind,” he continued. The ceiling lights fell on the diners beneath before bursting into flames. People ran helter-skelter as the menu cards swapped their behinds and pens forced themselves into their nose.
“My last book was a disaster. A critic said that his dog died after he read a page of my book to his dog. He deserved to die. Who reads out to their dogs? Another claimed that I wouldn’t know imagination if it bit me on my crotch,” he murmured, swatting at the breadcrumbs drilling into his ears.
His eyes widened slightly, as the eyewear plunged into his whites, before falling into nothingness. The table humped against his leg, each leg taking turns and knocking the air out of him. Circuit cameras flew in the café, snapping up images of people trapped inside the water cooler.
The diner hobbled towards the restroom; the table bounced over people, following him. His shirt was eating into the skin and his pants were doing what the critic said imagination would. The bathroom door smashed against his skull before hopping off towards the street, where buildings were evicting residents forcefully. Streetlights were swinging themselves against trees, which had its roots around the streetlights.
He jumped into a stall and sat on the commode.
“What’s the use of writing if people don’t give shit about it?” he asked, the toilet bowl accommodating him slowly.
“I need tho fawwl bakk oon exprinces,” his mouth sputtered, as it was making its way through the drain. Soon, his mangled body was thrown into a treatment facility where distillation units had a feast.
The plate devoured the muffins at the same time the coffee machine jumped on the server.
“Writing can be terrible sometimes,” the diner said. “Having no ideas to fall back on is the bane of a writer.” The tea-cup was munching on his daily newspaper while he stared at the street outside.
“There needs to be that spark which will ignite the author’s mind,” he continued. The ceiling lights fell on the diners beneath before bursting into flames. People ran helter-skelter as the menu cards swapped their behinds and pens forced themselves into their nose.
“My last book was a disaster. A critic said that his dog died after he read a page of my book to his dog. He deserved to die. Who reads out to their dogs? Another claimed that I wouldn’t know imagination if it bit me on my crotch,” he murmured, swatting at the breadcrumbs drilling into his ears.
His eyes widened slightly, as the eyewear plunged into his whites, before falling into nothingness. The table humped against his leg, each leg taking turns and knocking the air out of him. Circuit cameras flew in the café, snapping up images of people trapped inside the water cooler.
The diner hobbled towards the restroom; the table bounced over people, following him. His shirt was eating into the skin and his pants were doing what the critic said imagination would. The bathroom door smashed against his skull before hopping off towards the street, where buildings were evicting residents forcefully. Streetlights were swinging themselves against trees, which had its roots around the streetlights.
He jumped into a stall and sat on the commode.
“What’s the use of writing if people don’t give shit about it?” he asked, the toilet bowl accommodating him slowly.
“I need tho fawwl bakk oon exprinces,” his mouth sputtered, as it was making its way through the drain. Soon, his mangled body was thrown into a treatment facility where distillation units had a feast.
This entry was posted
on Friday, January 20, 2006 at 4:06 PM.
|
