JacobF
02-25-2009, 06:14 PM
Just something I've been beavering away at for the past few weeks or so. I'm not confident that it's my best work, writing and style wise, which is why I'm putting it up here for criticism.
Some people implode. Some people explode.
Some can’t handle the day-to-day routine. So, they resort to drugs, violence or any type of temptation with intent of seeking solace. Unless they can be kicked back into orbit by friends and family they explode. Oppositely, some people implode. They see sights which should never be seen. They hear words incomprehensible to the soul. Eventually, they are completely erased from the face of the Earth. They shrivel into a mass of guts and ivory that no longer can they be called “human.” They can no longer be called anything, and if there is eternal life they will not be a part of it. They implode.
And Martin thought about this as he proceeded to toss frozen patties onto the skillet. Mr. Chowsky, Martin’s manager, stood arms-crossed as he observed his employee mulling about. “Martin,” said Mr. Chowsky, trying to snap him out of his philosophical daze. “Martin! Those burgers are burning, for Christ’s sake. Get them off the grill and onto the buns.”
“Oh, sorry Mr. Chowsky, um, I will right away.”
Mr. Chowsky shook his head and marched towards his office. Martin carried out his task, yet still retreated to his mind. He tossed fries lethargically into their red-and-yellow cartons and squirted unknown condiments onto buns which housed vile discs of what was classified as “meat.” His life was a series of mundane tasks followed by the hollow joy of predicting what will come next. And he always got the right answers – vomit in the ball-room, stoned teenagers with no money, the smart *** who wanted a refund because he didn’t get a free smile. Yet, Martin continued to cocoon himself inside his mind, not caring for the physical realm.
The clock ticked five o’clock and Martin’s work day was over. He went to the employee’s sink and washed the grease off his face, tossed that day’s hair net into the trash and left McDonald’s. He hopped on a bus and rode home through the winter’s fury.
Martin’s apartment was a mess. Pizza boxes decorated the floor and dusty boxes of things were stacked in the corner. The only tidy area was a small nook with a corduroy couch and a bookshelf, where he spent most of his time. Entering the apartment, he threw his keys onto his desk and headed straight for the couch. Before flopping onto the couch, however, Martin admired the picture of his mother on the wall. As per routine, he grabbed a rag and windex and washed the picture-frame, in addition to scanning it for scratches and dots of dust.
Satisfied with his work, he took a book, Gulliver’s Travels, from the bookshelf and began to read. He found solace in the ink. Greasy fingers turned each page with passion. As Martin found himself in the shoes of Gulliver, a sharp rapping on the door interrupted his fantasy. He ushered his corpse towards the door, knowing full-well who it would be: Mr. Montacello, his landlord. “Hello, sir, what can I do for you?” Martin asked.
“Don’t get smart with me, Martin. You know what I want. Your rent’s two months overdue.”
Martin lowered his head and tinkered with the rotting door-knob as if it were a loose tooth.
“You listening to me?” Anger arose in the landlord’s tone. “Get it to me by the end of the week, or you’re out of here.”
The end of the week, Martin thought. That would mean overtime at McDonald’s again. That would mean more time in the cave. Martin ignored Mr. Montacello’s request and returned to his reading.
It was eleven P.M. now: Martin’s favourite time of the day. Sleep. He wasn’t particularly exhausted, but sleep meant dreams. Martin was a lucid dreamer. Every night was an adventure into a new realm, whether he delved into his greatest desires or most harrowing fears. He came alive.
Tonight, Martin was a butterfly. Fluttering as quickly as his eyelids, he soared across the titan landscape of the Grand Canyon. As he continued to whiz through the crevices of the behemoth valley, Martin grew fatigued. Do butterflies drink water? Because I’m parched, Martin thought to himself. He continued to fly until he was above a flat plain. Along the horizon he saw a house-looking structure: it was faded in the fumes of heat, but Martin swore he saw it. He flew towards it, and as he approached it closer he realized it was a chapel.
An organ blared through the thick summer heat. Martin perched himself on a windowsill and observed the worshipers fanning themselves with church pamphlets. He saw a familiar face: his Mother. But, she didn’t look like his Mother. She was a young lady with mild skin; probably in her twenties. Martin flew over to her and perched himself on the arm of her pew. His Mother’s bored expression turned to jubilation: this butterfly was tickling the air around her, and soon drew the attention of the whole congregation. Even the reverend was admiring this fruitful creature. “Ah, God has sent us delight in such a dreadful day,” remarked the reverend. The congregation turned away from Martin soon enough, yet his Mother was still intrigued. Martin noticed the flaring pink bow in his Mother’s hat and perched himself upon it. Enjoying the giggles from his Mother he no longer needed water, for at that time his Mother’s delight was an indispensable fountain.
Ugh. The alarm, Martin thought to himself. The sobering hammer of reality. As Martin reached for the snooze button he noticed the ringing wasn't from the alarm: it was from the telephone. He dusted the handle off and answered, “Hello? …Mr. Montacello?”
“No,” replied a grating voice, “is this Martin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s your Aunt Sylvie.”
Martin kept the phone to his ear. He focused on the picture of his Mother across the room, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. Who was Aunt Sylvie?
“It’s about your Mother. She… she had a stroke, dear.”
Martin put the phone to his chest and continued to fixate on the frame. His eyes became swollen with tears.
“She’s at 5th Liberty now, and they just finished doing some tests. It was the alcohol. Apparently... it's severe.”
Martin hung up. He had not seen his Mother since he left home at sixteen. The final pang of gloom arrived the day Martin realized he could not afford to eat anymore due to the rapidly spawning booze bills that were, of course, neglected. So, he was shuffled between foster homes like a bag of money. Not much different than living with his Mother.
A reunion now would be unpredictable, Martin thought. She could welcome me back into the final fringes of her life. She could. She could...
Baubles of tears ran down his reddened cheeks. Martin noticed the time and decided he would simply go to work that day.
----------
Work, which today was particularly torturous, was finally over. But after much pondering Martin finally decided to visit his Mother at the hospital. He rushed to the nearest bus-stop. Just the thought of seeing his Mother for the first time in years consumed him in both a whirlwind of nerves and a breeze of relief.
“Family member,” he said to the hospital receptionist. She gave him the go-ahead and he paced toward the elevator with a crooked smile. The smile disappeared as soon as the elevator rolled up to his floor. He kept one hand on the railing as he walked toward his Mother’s room: 784.
The door was ajar. He rested his shaking fingers on it and pushed the door open, ever so gently. Bold coughs were heard and Martin kept his fingers on the wall, approaching the bed like one would a ticking time bomb. “Mother,” he said under his breath. But there lied an empty bed and a gaunt nurse who was making it.
“She passed away, just two hours ago,” she said. “I’m… I’m very sorry.”
Some people implode, and some people explode. It was at that precise time that Martin imploded. His life had finally eaten him.
He did not dream that night.
Some people implode. Some people explode.
Some can’t handle the day-to-day routine. So, they resort to drugs, violence or any type of temptation with intent of seeking solace. Unless they can be kicked back into orbit by friends and family they explode. Oppositely, some people implode. They see sights which should never be seen. They hear words incomprehensible to the soul. Eventually, they are completely erased from the face of the Earth. They shrivel into a mass of guts and ivory that no longer can they be called “human.” They can no longer be called anything, and if there is eternal life they will not be a part of it. They implode.
And Martin thought about this as he proceeded to toss frozen patties onto the skillet. Mr. Chowsky, Martin’s manager, stood arms-crossed as he observed his employee mulling about. “Martin,” said Mr. Chowsky, trying to snap him out of his philosophical daze. “Martin! Those burgers are burning, for Christ’s sake. Get them off the grill and onto the buns.”
“Oh, sorry Mr. Chowsky, um, I will right away.”
Mr. Chowsky shook his head and marched towards his office. Martin carried out his task, yet still retreated to his mind. He tossed fries lethargically into their red-and-yellow cartons and squirted unknown condiments onto buns which housed vile discs of what was classified as “meat.” His life was a series of mundane tasks followed by the hollow joy of predicting what will come next. And he always got the right answers – vomit in the ball-room, stoned teenagers with no money, the smart *** who wanted a refund because he didn’t get a free smile. Yet, Martin continued to cocoon himself inside his mind, not caring for the physical realm.
The clock ticked five o’clock and Martin’s work day was over. He went to the employee’s sink and washed the grease off his face, tossed that day’s hair net into the trash and left McDonald’s. He hopped on a bus and rode home through the winter’s fury.
Martin’s apartment was a mess. Pizza boxes decorated the floor and dusty boxes of things were stacked in the corner. The only tidy area was a small nook with a corduroy couch and a bookshelf, where he spent most of his time. Entering the apartment, he threw his keys onto his desk and headed straight for the couch. Before flopping onto the couch, however, Martin admired the picture of his mother on the wall. As per routine, he grabbed a rag and windex and washed the picture-frame, in addition to scanning it for scratches and dots of dust.
Satisfied with his work, he took a book, Gulliver’s Travels, from the bookshelf and began to read. He found solace in the ink. Greasy fingers turned each page with passion. As Martin found himself in the shoes of Gulliver, a sharp rapping on the door interrupted his fantasy. He ushered his corpse towards the door, knowing full-well who it would be: Mr. Montacello, his landlord. “Hello, sir, what can I do for you?” Martin asked.
“Don’t get smart with me, Martin. You know what I want. Your rent’s two months overdue.”
Martin lowered his head and tinkered with the rotting door-knob as if it were a loose tooth.
“You listening to me?” Anger arose in the landlord’s tone. “Get it to me by the end of the week, or you’re out of here.”
The end of the week, Martin thought. That would mean overtime at McDonald’s again. That would mean more time in the cave. Martin ignored Mr. Montacello’s request and returned to his reading.
It was eleven P.M. now: Martin’s favourite time of the day. Sleep. He wasn’t particularly exhausted, but sleep meant dreams. Martin was a lucid dreamer. Every night was an adventure into a new realm, whether he delved into his greatest desires or most harrowing fears. He came alive.
Tonight, Martin was a butterfly. Fluttering as quickly as his eyelids, he soared across the titan landscape of the Grand Canyon. As he continued to whiz through the crevices of the behemoth valley, Martin grew fatigued. Do butterflies drink water? Because I’m parched, Martin thought to himself. He continued to fly until he was above a flat plain. Along the horizon he saw a house-looking structure: it was faded in the fumes of heat, but Martin swore he saw it. He flew towards it, and as he approached it closer he realized it was a chapel.
An organ blared through the thick summer heat. Martin perched himself on a windowsill and observed the worshipers fanning themselves with church pamphlets. He saw a familiar face: his Mother. But, she didn’t look like his Mother. She was a young lady with mild skin; probably in her twenties. Martin flew over to her and perched himself on the arm of her pew. His Mother’s bored expression turned to jubilation: this butterfly was tickling the air around her, and soon drew the attention of the whole congregation. Even the reverend was admiring this fruitful creature. “Ah, God has sent us delight in such a dreadful day,” remarked the reverend. The congregation turned away from Martin soon enough, yet his Mother was still intrigued. Martin noticed the flaring pink bow in his Mother’s hat and perched himself upon it. Enjoying the giggles from his Mother he no longer needed water, for at that time his Mother’s delight was an indispensable fountain.
Ugh. The alarm, Martin thought to himself. The sobering hammer of reality. As Martin reached for the snooze button he noticed the ringing wasn't from the alarm: it was from the telephone. He dusted the handle off and answered, “Hello? …Mr. Montacello?”
“No,” replied a grating voice, “is this Martin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s your Aunt Sylvie.”
Martin kept the phone to his ear. He focused on the picture of his Mother across the room, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. Who was Aunt Sylvie?
“It’s about your Mother. She… she had a stroke, dear.”
Martin put the phone to his chest and continued to fixate on the frame. His eyes became swollen with tears.
“She’s at 5th Liberty now, and they just finished doing some tests. It was the alcohol. Apparently... it's severe.”
Martin hung up. He had not seen his Mother since he left home at sixteen. The final pang of gloom arrived the day Martin realized he could not afford to eat anymore due to the rapidly spawning booze bills that were, of course, neglected. So, he was shuffled between foster homes like a bag of money. Not much different than living with his Mother.
A reunion now would be unpredictable, Martin thought. She could welcome me back into the final fringes of her life. She could. She could...
Baubles of tears ran down his reddened cheeks. Martin noticed the time and decided he would simply go to work that day.
----------
Work, which today was particularly torturous, was finally over. But after much pondering Martin finally decided to visit his Mother at the hospital. He rushed to the nearest bus-stop. Just the thought of seeing his Mother for the first time in years consumed him in both a whirlwind of nerves and a breeze of relief.
“Family member,” he said to the hospital receptionist. She gave him the go-ahead and he paced toward the elevator with a crooked smile. The smile disappeared as soon as the elevator rolled up to his floor. He kept one hand on the railing as he walked toward his Mother’s room: 784.
The door was ajar. He rested his shaking fingers on it and pushed the door open, ever so gently. Bold coughs were heard and Martin kept his fingers on the wall, approaching the bed like one would a ticking time bomb. “Mother,” he said under his breath. But there lied an empty bed and a gaunt nurse who was making it.
“She passed away, just two hours ago,” she said. “I’m… I’m very sorry.”
Some people implode, and some people explode. It was at that precise time that Martin imploded. His life had finally eaten him.
He did not dream that night.