||[Jun. 23rd, 2009|07:57 pm]
The Amazing Capt. of Wonders
So I'm in a fiction writing class and we do exercises every day. I've made the executive decision to post what I write, just because. Unedited as well, so their not even closed to finished. Just little brainbursts.|
Today we had to choose three words and write a situation that described the word. The first situation had to involve the first word, which was 'chaos' and a 'father figure'. The second had to involve 'sloppy' and a 'mother figure'. And the third involved the word 'chronic' and a 'significant other'.
He cracked the ancient, tarnished egg over the frying pan and all creation spilled out into a bubbling heap across the fire. Galaxies spewed into the air as matter sizzled and popped into existence. Chaos raged within worlds as a tilt of the pan brought raw ingredients from the surface down to the heat of the instrument. And finally, when everything had settled into a firm mass he took a spatula in hand and mashed the universe into an indistinguishable scramble of rage, rants, and revelations.
I watched my mother fix my breakfast with half closed lids, hung heavily like weighted blinds and obscuring my already blurry vision. She took no care in the process, slapping batter and spewing syrup in every which direction. Her weathered, bony hands poured juice from a pitcher so that once reaching the top it overflowed from the the cup and spilled plentifully across the counter and onto the dusty floor. Smoke billowed from the pan as she listlessly stirred tar black eggs. I sat at the table, cold lapping at my appendages, unable to move or speak, just look on in tired misery as the back of her frazzled nightcap bobbed sloppily up and down with each step between the refrigerator and the sink.
It'd been seven years since she'd made me breakfast, or even seen my face.
I was almost pleased to know that in that time she'd decayed as much as our tattered house.
My girl had left me, although it wasn't the first time. Or the second.
The third would have been tolerable, or perhaps even the forth.
But I crawled back to her an unlucky thirteen times before she finally packed up and moved out to Alaska in desperation. Like a chronic illness she'd return to me with new enthralling symptoms, and the parasite that I was I wasted no time in clinging back onto her bony, wasted body. Even now I can't help but wonder how much it'd cost me to hire a sherpa and battle the Yukon winds to end up at her cozy cabin door.
This exercise we had to choose from a list of opening sentences. Don't like this one as much, but it was fun.
I suppose there was talk in our house afterward.
Whispers and nods.
They kept away from it, creating an even distance between themselves and the monster everywhere they went within the room. And even then I could tell that my mother and father, sister and brother, all wanted to get out quickly and relieve themselves from the weight of looking upon such a hideous beast.
The underbreath comments were not lost on my careful ears.
My father would tiptoe cautiously into the living room to grab his reading glasses from the coffee table before sprinting rapidly towards the kitchen. Once I saw my sister snap a hurried picture with her phone before, with ragged breaths, jolting for the door.
I won't claim to know, besides the poor creature's physical appearance, what put them so fiercely on alarm about the thing.
He was in a cage, after all.
His fur was matted and grey, speckled with electric orange spots. Perhaps his teeth were abnormally large for his bearlike muzzle, but that was only noticeable when he smiled.
But, for whatever reason, they hated dear Herbert from the moment I carried him through the front door.