indelibleface
Bluelight Crew
This is my first shit-draft (as they say in nerdy, self-gratifying writing circles) so it's basically the unedited, hot-off-the-word-processor version without streamlining or after-beautifying in any way. Hope to at least get some feedback, though. This was recently turned in to my Creative Writing class, so again, it's definitely a work in progress, although it's not unfinished, if you know what I mean.
New Day Rising
Sam was dreaming pleasantly.
And then he wasn't.
His dream was replaced by the loud, crackly screeching of his clock-radio, set to an in-between radio frequency, halfway between a monotonous newscaster and a disturbingly happy mariachi tune. Pained by his sudden and unwelcome wakefulness, he struggled to point the clock-radio in his general direction with his hand. The display read “5:30AM.”
Sam rested his head back upon his pillow and stared blankly at his cottage-cheese ceiling, lit dimly by the first rays of the not-quite-yet rising sun and the red electronic glow of his clock-radio. He knew that if he remained in that position for much longer, he would fall back into dreamland, and a series of unfortunate events would occur, culminating in the loss of his job, and further down the road, his apartment, his dog, his savings, and his future. His desire to sleep was only slightly dwarfed by his fear of impending doom. He decided to get up.
After rising to his feet, he stumbled past a bowl left on the floor and nearly tripped. He picked it up. It was Italian from last night; the marinara sauce had hardened into a red plaster-like substance glued onto the side of the cheap ceramic. In frustration and blatant laziness, he tossed it to the side as he had done the night before, leaving it to be tidied up another day. He headed into the bathroom and turned on the lights, revealing his own post-slumber visage in the toothpaste-splatter caked mirror. His long hair was scraggly and unkempt in typical bed-head fashion. At least it looked okay, though. The new conditioner he tried the previous night was working, he thought to himself. Showering at night before bed was definitely a good idea. He had no motivation in the morning. Morning showers were a painful experience for him. He was always in pain in the morning. He wanted to minimize that pain as much as possible, so he kept trying new little things to alter the way his life was going, hoping that he could carve out a perfect sculpture of his own existence from the meager tools he had available. He had the distinct feeling, though, that what was needed were bigger, sweeping changes. Again, motivation was a problem.
He jabbed a toothbrush into his mouth and got to work on cleaning himself up for the day. The dull yellow light of the bathroom made everything look unnatural and stagnant. The place was a mess. Perhaps some spring cleaning was in order. The clutter was making him feel unnatural and stagnant. He wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, but the feelings were genuine.
Sam's day at work was mostly typical. He shuffled papers around the office, took an exorbitant amount of phone calls from people he couldn't care less about, and made a nearly equal amount of phone calls to people who couldn't care less about him. It was degrading, soul-sucking work, but it paid the bills. It kept things stable. Safe. Stagnant. He left the office feeling the same as when he arrived. He used to feel happier when a shift ended; nowadays, all he could do was dwell on the fact that he'd have to be there again the next morning, same time, same place.
He walked down the street towards his apartment, counting every identical square of concrete as he walked upon them, one by one. The repetition sedated him. Sleep sounded good right about then.
-/-
Seona slowly woke from her slumber. The bright light of the early morning sun beamed through the windows of her new beachside apartment, illuminating the room with an organic, natural warmth. She cracked a smile at the sight of her room. The day before, she had performed a deep clean of the living space, pulling out all the stops: vacuuming, cleansing, dusting, declutterizing, Feng Shui-ifying, and a generalized increasing of the comfort levels in her personal little sanctuary that was her sleeping quarters. She knew the morning sun would look marvelous showering down upon the freshly improved space, and she was not disappointed.
She glanced at her clock-radio. The display read “6:30AM.” She had work at eight. Her clock was set to wake her up at seven, but she had woken up a half-hour beforehand all by herself; it was just one of those days. She hoped mornings would always be like this at her new place. It was all very exciting, moving to a new town, starting a new job, and above all, living closer to Fred.
Fred had stayed the night, and had already left downstairs; his slippers were missing, so that fact was pretty obvious. She hopped to her feet, and threw on a robe. As she walked to the bathroom to freshen up, she could detect the faint smell of eggs. Bacon too? Fred must be in the kitchen, she thought to herself. It was certain: she couldn't recall a Monday morning that sucked less than this.
-/-
Sam struggled to his feet with a bit of panic. Sparse rays of sunlight rippled through the cheap, bent-out-of-shape Venetian blinds at random angles, leaving his room quite dim. His clock-radio never woke him up at the preset time, and somehow, his cellphone had come undone from its charger, itself passing out midway through the night, unable to receive calls from his boss that might have minimized the damage. As it was, he was several hours late for his work shift.
He hated the feeling that things were slipping out of his control, as if his life had turned to finely-ground powder and began to slip between his fingers to the floor below. He always suspected that his boss never liked him, and this would of course just give his boss more reason to hate. Sam had always said that he despised the stagnant nature of his existence, but downward momentum like losing his job was not the remedy for his complacency. He slipped and unclipped his night garments off and tossed them to the side, putting on the clothes he was supposed to wear for the day—the clothes everyone expected him to wear. As he pulled tight his black business tie, his hands shook. He grew nervous at the thought of walking past his coworkers in shame. He dreaded that first look into the eyes of his boss, and that smirk he'd have across his face, and that line he would say, the one he says to everyone who shows up late to work: “Hey hey, buddy boy, heh heh, where've you been?” His boss would take another sip of his premium coffee and expect a response out of Sam, even though it was implied that the question was rhetorical. He didn't give a shit about what Sam had to say. He just wanted Sam to be humiliated. Sam didn't want to feel that way again, but he always kind of did. He always let things like this get to him.
-/-
Seona woke from her nap. She felt the cool breeze of the beach caress her form like an endless, comforting blanket. She grasped the cellphone sitting on her lap. “6:46PM,” read the time display. It was getting close to dinnertime, but she could use a few more minutes of vegetation. She lay backwards into her lounge chair; her feet stretched past the chair onto the sand below, her toes twirling to and fro across the fine grains. She felt perfect. This was where she wanted to be. The late Spring sun was setting in the horizon, reflecting upon the ocean with a dazzling mixture of red and purple hues. She didn't want to leave this, but she had to go inside.
She walked into her apartment from the patio and headed for the bedroom to change for dinner. She had just received a text from Fred; he was on his way for another evening with her. She was exhausted from the previous night, but after he'd offered to cook homemade Italian food, she was smitten. Homemade Italian. Her favorite. She could go at least one more sleepless night; it was for a good cause, anyway.
In the bathroom, she started the shower and began to undress. For a moment, she looked in the mirror, and froze. She raised her hand to touch her own face. Her face. After a moment, she had both hands clasped on each side of her smooth, moisturized face as she stared at herself in the reflection. She asked herself silently, was this really all happening? How did things get so perfect? Was this real? She knew everyone asked that question at least a handful of times in their lives. What is real, anyway, she wondered, as she slipped her hands across her feminine form, so familiar and yet, for some reason, felt as strangely new, and therefore exciting, as the freshly painted walls of her bathroom...as new as the life she had just begun here only a week prior...as new as the sunlight that greeted her each morning. She loved being this beautiful and living this beautiful life. She didn't want it to go away. She turned her head to the small bathroom window above the toilet, and watched the sun leave beneath the distant waves.
-/-
Sam awoke to a deep darkness.
With a yawn, he twirled himself to face the clock-radio. The display read “2:36AM.” For a few fleeting moments he could still feel the warmth of the dreams as they scurried away from his consciousness like mice fleeing a sudden downpour of rain. Most people never remember their dreams, or at least have trouble recalling specific details. Sam could remember every detail of every dream he'd ever had. Especially recently, his dreams had become far more vivid. He reached his hands to clasp his face. He felt the rough jaggedness of his masculine, unshaven scraggle. In frustration, he rolled himself over and pulled a pillow across his head, attempting to blot out the reality of his situation. He lay impatiently, waiting for sleep to overtake his perceptions once more. This wasn't real. This couldn't be the way things were, he thought to himself as he drifted behind the wall of dreams.
-/-
Seona woke up, curled up against Fred's warm body, draped in the most comfortable of down comforters. The morning sun, always her friend, smiled upon her face as she smiled back, happy she was exactly where she belonged.
New Day Rising
Sam was dreaming pleasantly.
And then he wasn't.
His dream was replaced by the loud, crackly screeching of his clock-radio, set to an in-between radio frequency, halfway between a monotonous newscaster and a disturbingly happy mariachi tune. Pained by his sudden and unwelcome wakefulness, he struggled to point the clock-radio in his general direction with his hand. The display read “5:30AM.”
Sam rested his head back upon his pillow and stared blankly at his cottage-cheese ceiling, lit dimly by the first rays of the not-quite-yet rising sun and the red electronic glow of his clock-radio. He knew that if he remained in that position for much longer, he would fall back into dreamland, and a series of unfortunate events would occur, culminating in the loss of his job, and further down the road, his apartment, his dog, his savings, and his future. His desire to sleep was only slightly dwarfed by his fear of impending doom. He decided to get up.
After rising to his feet, he stumbled past a bowl left on the floor and nearly tripped. He picked it up. It was Italian from last night; the marinara sauce had hardened into a red plaster-like substance glued onto the side of the cheap ceramic. In frustration and blatant laziness, he tossed it to the side as he had done the night before, leaving it to be tidied up another day. He headed into the bathroom and turned on the lights, revealing his own post-slumber visage in the toothpaste-splatter caked mirror. His long hair was scraggly and unkempt in typical bed-head fashion. At least it looked okay, though. The new conditioner he tried the previous night was working, he thought to himself. Showering at night before bed was definitely a good idea. He had no motivation in the morning. Morning showers were a painful experience for him. He was always in pain in the morning. He wanted to minimize that pain as much as possible, so he kept trying new little things to alter the way his life was going, hoping that he could carve out a perfect sculpture of his own existence from the meager tools he had available. He had the distinct feeling, though, that what was needed were bigger, sweeping changes. Again, motivation was a problem.
He jabbed a toothbrush into his mouth and got to work on cleaning himself up for the day. The dull yellow light of the bathroom made everything look unnatural and stagnant. The place was a mess. Perhaps some spring cleaning was in order. The clutter was making him feel unnatural and stagnant. He wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, but the feelings were genuine.
Sam's day at work was mostly typical. He shuffled papers around the office, took an exorbitant amount of phone calls from people he couldn't care less about, and made a nearly equal amount of phone calls to people who couldn't care less about him. It was degrading, soul-sucking work, but it paid the bills. It kept things stable. Safe. Stagnant. He left the office feeling the same as when he arrived. He used to feel happier when a shift ended; nowadays, all he could do was dwell on the fact that he'd have to be there again the next morning, same time, same place.
He walked down the street towards his apartment, counting every identical square of concrete as he walked upon them, one by one. The repetition sedated him. Sleep sounded good right about then.
-/-
Seona slowly woke from her slumber. The bright light of the early morning sun beamed through the windows of her new beachside apartment, illuminating the room with an organic, natural warmth. She cracked a smile at the sight of her room. The day before, she had performed a deep clean of the living space, pulling out all the stops: vacuuming, cleansing, dusting, declutterizing, Feng Shui-ifying, and a generalized increasing of the comfort levels in her personal little sanctuary that was her sleeping quarters. She knew the morning sun would look marvelous showering down upon the freshly improved space, and she was not disappointed.
She glanced at her clock-radio. The display read “6:30AM.” She had work at eight. Her clock was set to wake her up at seven, but she had woken up a half-hour beforehand all by herself; it was just one of those days. She hoped mornings would always be like this at her new place. It was all very exciting, moving to a new town, starting a new job, and above all, living closer to Fred.
Fred had stayed the night, and had already left downstairs; his slippers were missing, so that fact was pretty obvious. She hopped to her feet, and threw on a robe. As she walked to the bathroom to freshen up, she could detect the faint smell of eggs. Bacon too? Fred must be in the kitchen, she thought to herself. It was certain: she couldn't recall a Monday morning that sucked less than this.
-/-
Sam struggled to his feet with a bit of panic. Sparse rays of sunlight rippled through the cheap, bent-out-of-shape Venetian blinds at random angles, leaving his room quite dim. His clock-radio never woke him up at the preset time, and somehow, his cellphone had come undone from its charger, itself passing out midway through the night, unable to receive calls from his boss that might have minimized the damage. As it was, he was several hours late for his work shift.
He hated the feeling that things were slipping out of his control, as if his life had turned to finely-ground powder and began to slip between his fingers to the floor below. He always suspected that his boss never liked him, and this would of course just give his boss more reason to hate. Sam had always said that he despised the stagnant nature of his existence, but downward momentum like losing his job was not the remedy for his complacency. He slipped and unclipped his night garments off and tossed them to the side, putting on the clothes he was supposed to wear for the day—the clothes everyone expected him to wear. As he pulled tight his black business tie, his hands shook. He grew nervous at the thought of walking past his coworkers in shame. He dreaded that first look into the eyes of his boss, and that smirk he'd have across his face, and that line he would say, the one he says to everyone who shows up late to work: “Hey hey, buddy boy, heh heh, where've you been?” His boss would take another sip of his premium coffee and expect a response out of Sam, even though it was implied that the question was rhetorical. He didn't give a shit about what Sam had to say. He just wanted Sam to be humiliated. Sam didn't want to feel that way again, but he always kind of did. He always let things like this get to him.
-/-
Seona woke from her nap. She felt the cool breeze of the beach caress her form like an endless, comforting blanket. She grasped the cellphone sitting on her lap. “6:46PM,” read the time display. It was getting close to dinnertime, but she could use a few more minutes of vegetation. She lay backwards into her lounge chair; her feet stretched past the chair onto the sand below, her toes twirling to and fro across the fine grains. She felt perfect. This was where she wanted to be. The late Spring sun was setting in the horizon, reflecting upon the ocean with a dazzling mixture of red and purple hues. She didn't want to leave this, but she had to go inside.
She walked into her apartment from the patio and headed for the bedroom to change for dinner. She had just received a text from Fred; he was on his way for another evening with her. She was exhausted from the previous night, but after he'd offered to cook homemade Italian food, she was smitten. Homemade Italian. Her favorite. She could go at least one more sleepless night; it was for a good cause, anyway.
In the bathroom, she started the shower and began to undress. For a moment, she looked in the mirror, and froze. She raised her hand to touch her own face. Her face. After a moment, she had both hands clasped on each side of her smooth, moisturized face as she stared at herself in the reflection. She asked herself silently, was this really all happening? How did things get so perfect? Was this real? She knew everyone asked that question at least a handful of times in their lives. What is real, anyway, she wondered, as she slipped her hands across her feminine form, so familiar and yet, for some reason, felt as strangely new, and therefore exciting, as the freshly painted walls of her bathroom...as new as the life she had just begun here only a week prior...as new as the sunlight that greeted her each morning. She loved being this beautiful and living this beautiful life. She didn't want it to go away. She turned her head to the small bathroom window above the toilet, and watched the sun leave beneath the distant waves.
-/-
Sam awoke to a deep darkness.
With a yawn, he twirled himself to face the clock-radio. The display read “2:36AM.” For a few fleeting moments he could still feel the warmth of the dreams as they scurried away from his consciousness like mice fleeing a sudden downpour of rain. Most people never remember their dreams, or at least have trouble recalling specific details. Sam could remember every detail of every dream he'd ever had. Especially recently, his dreams had become far more vivid. He reached his hands to clasp his face. He felt the rough jaggedness of his masculine, unshaven scraggle. In frustration, he rolled himself over and pulled a pillow across his head, attempting to blot out the reality of his situation. He lay impatiently, waiting for sleep to overtake his perceptions once more. This wasn't real. This couldn't be the way things were, he thought to himself as he drifted behind the wall of dreams.
-/-
Seona woke up, curled up against Fred's warm body, draped in the most comfortable of down comforters. The morning sun, always her friend, smiled upon her face as she smiled back, happy she was exactly where she belonged.
)