Solitarely
11-07-2006, 12:53 AM
A Bag of ****
By: Michael Richard
The old man sat alone. He watched Wheel of Fortune content, sipping off his twenty-second beer today. His surrounding living room lay strewn with many decades of clutter, of late a pile of Nutri-Grain bar wrappers grown into a formidable mound to the corner and behind his easy chair which was placed in the middle of the small room, directly in front of his television. He bought a case of the Nutri-Grain bars because they were cheaply priced at a discount store to be gotten rid of and free up salable product space. It was a good discount and their nutritional content sustained the man and his unceasing onslaught of, for decades now, nearly identical days.
Yesterday was more of a unique occurrence than typical. He tried mowing his lawn with his twelve year old push mower to finally attack his ill-maintained yard, overgrown into oblivion. His worn out machine finally sputtered and conked out. Bewildered the old man overturned his machine acquiring from whatever thoughtless recess his idiotly dispersed tools were lain, who's location was of always great surprise for him. He proceeded to tinker with the machine and even unbound a few screws. He stared at it perplexed and none the wiser to what prescribed action should follow. Finding it now grew dark on him, squatting without the least benefit beside his impotent machine, he held his cut, grease soiled hand which bled profusely and decided to go inside where more beer awaited beside. He cut it fairly bad scraping it against some metal strapping or casing as a result of tugging hard, for no discernable reason, on a part of the lawn mower.
He got excited now, knowing the answer to the word puzzle before any of the contestants. He sat sipping beer wearing stained boxers and an old sleeveless undershirt. His old grayish skin flapped and was slightly yellowish from alcoholism. The aged skin possessed splotches of sores that spotted his body and were never allowed to heal as it was his want to thoughtlessly pick at them. Even in his old age, long since outgrown the empty wailings of an infant, this action provided as a meditative pacifier. One sore remained especially putrid and infected. Mixtures of puss and scabbing cracked and quaked revealing the softer undercurrents of blood and inflamed, red flesh. His left hand would often unconsciously rest upon his breast whereby his fingers would work upon finding the crustiest, most tenacious structures of his sore and pick, and pick, and pick. Sometimes after extracting an especially allusive piece he'd examine it, genuinely curious, and then insert it into his mouth without the least bit of conscious thought and devour it.
His excitement, watching Wheel of Fortune, caused him to move his left hand and it smacked hard against the chair's arm rest. It was the hand he cut last night. "Ow," he screamed out and immediately found his outburst causing an uncontrolled coughing fit. His body contorted hard as he wretched for a good seven minutes, discolored phlegm occasionally whipping madly from his chap lips. Some held anchor to his lips firmer than others and he'd remove them at any rate by a swift swiping of hands. Flinging about the phlegm off his hands across the room or wiping them on his boxers and bare leg.
The coughing subdued and he grasped his injured hand. It was still wrapped in a rag he found on his floor last night, originally white but now aged and tinged with differing colors, blood stains being its latest addition. He took no mind to the cool wetness spilled onto his lap wetting his boxers. The source was his spilling beer as he coughed. He scratched his knee and chided a contestant for buying an obviously unrelated vowel, and flatulence sounded and smelt of rotten oats, a stench with just that hint of earthiness and comfort.
His doorbell rang. He muttered incoherent wondering who the hell would disturb him at this hour. He had no kids and all his relatives by now were dead. He was the last dead end of a long line. With his demise rested a final genetic extinction. The doorbell rang again and again more forcefully. "Ok, ok..." His hunched over body finally straightened upright. "...and during Wheel of fortune...," he mumbled, sauntering to the door. He kicked one of the many inconsequential items upon it and swayed, belching loudly, and reeking of alcohol. He opened the door. There was no one there. His idiot face contorted at the mystery before but just as quickly became alighted by flame lapping out near his feet.
"Almighty," the old man groaned in a hoarse, airy voice as he proceeded to stomp upon the fire. Immediately the smell of a smoldering paper bag mixed with the stink of turds within of which his stomping expelled caught his nostrils, alarming him. The sound of youthful, teenaged laughing in the distance, the old infuriated man flung with rage his half full beer can toward their general direction in a meaningless act of great futility.
Next spring the can remained long after the snows receded and for many more years to come. Eventually the old man simply died.
By: Michael Richard
The old man sat alone. He watched Wheel of Fortune content, sipping off his twenty-second beer today. His surrounding living room lay strewn with many decades of clutter, of late a pile of Nutri-Grain bar wrappers grown into a formidable mound to the corner and behind his easy chair which was placed in the middle of the small room, directly in front of his television. He bought a case of the Nutri-Grain bars because they were cheaply priced at a discount store to be gotten rid of and free up salable product space. It was a good discount and their nutritional content sustained the man and his unceasing onslaught of, for decades now, nearly identical days.
Yesterday was more of a unique occurrence than typical. He tried mowing his lawn with his twelve year old push mower to finally attack his ill-maintained yard, overgrown into oblivion. His worn out machine finally sputtered and conked out. Bewildered the old man overturned his machine acquiring from whatever thoughtless recess his idiotly dispersed tools were lain, who's location was of always great surprise for him. He proceeded to tinker with the machine and even unbound a few screws. He stared at it perplexed and none the wiser to what prescribed action should follow. Finding it now grew dark on him, squatting without the least benefit beside his impotent machine, he held his cut, grease soiled hand which bled profusely and decided to go inside where more beer awaited beside. He cut it fairly bad scraping it against some metal strapping or casing as a result of tugging hard, for no discernable reason, on a part of the lawn mower.
He got excited now, knowing the answer to the word puzzle before any of the contestants. He sat sipping beer wearing stained boxers and an old sleeveless undershirt. His old grayish skin flapped and was slightly yellowish from alcoholism. The aged skin possessed splotches of sores that spotted his body and were never allowed to heal as it was his want to thoughtlessly pick at them. Even in his old age, long since outgrown the empty wailings of an infant, this action provided as a meditative pacifier. One sore remained especially putrid and infected. Mixtures of puss and scabbing cracked and quaked revealing the softer undercurrents of blood and inflamed, red flesh. His left hand would often unconsciously rest upon his breast whereby his fingers would work upon finding the crustiest, most tenacious structures of his sore and pick, and pick, and pick. Sometimes after extracting an especially allusive piece he'd examine it, genuinely curious, and then insert it into his mouth without the least bit of conscious thought and devour it.
His excitement, watching Wheel of Fortune, caused him to move his left hand and it smacked hard against the chair's arm rest. It was the hand he cut last night. "Ow," he screamed out and immediately found his outburst causing an uncontrolled coughing fit. His body contorted hard as he wretched for a good seven minutes, discolored phlegm occasionally whipping madly from his chap lips. Some held anchor to his lips firmer than others and he'd remove them at any rate by a swift swiping of hands. Flinging about the phlegm off his hands across the room or wiping them on his boxers and bare leg.
The coughing subdued and he grasped his injured hand. It was still wrapped in a rag he found on his floor last night, originally white but now aged and tinged with differing colors, blood stains being its latest addition. He took no mind to the cool wetness spilled onto his lap wetting his boxers. The source was his spilling beer as he coughed. He scratched his knee and chided a contestant for buying an obviously unrelated vowel, and flatulence sounded and smelt of rotten oats, a stench with just that hint of earthiness and comfort.
His doorbell rang. He muttered incoherent wondering who the hell would disturb him at this hour. He had no kids and all his relatives by now were dead. He was the last dead end of a long line. With his demise rested a final genetic extinction. The doorbell rang again and again more forcefully. "Ok, ok..." His hunched over body finally straightened upright. "...and during Wheel of fortune...," he mumbled, sauntering to the door. He kicked one of the many inconsequential items upon it and swayed, belching loudly, and reeking of alcohol. He opened the door. There was no one there. His idiot face contorted at the mystery before but just as quickly became alighted by flame lapping out near his feet.
"Almighty," the old man groaned in a hoarse, airy voice as he proceeded to stomp upon the fire. Immediately the smell of a smoldering paper bag mixed with the stink of turds within of which his stomping expelled caught his nostrils, alarming him. The sound of youthful, teenaged laughing in the distance, the old infuriated man flung with rage his half full beer can toward their general direction in a meaningless act of great futility.
Next spring the can remained long after the snows receded and for many more years to come. Eventually the old man simply died.