thetinkris
01-27-2010, 01:22 AM
Linoleum Tile Floor
Mr. Dean Harlem couldn’t take his eyes off his bathroom wall. The moment he did, it would crumble into a thousand pieces onto the linoleum tile floor, and bring about the end of the world. Tile was a funny thing; so cold and impersonal. He might as well have covered his floor in people.
In the day of Mr. Harlem, “people” was a term given to a group of creatures who spent most of their time worrying about things that didn’t even matter. They also liked to destroy eachother; sometimes in pursuit of something valuable, sometimes just because. Dean Harlem was ashamed to be a person.
On the surface, the wall seemed as sturdy and static as any other wall. But it wasn’t. Its insides were alive, and only Mr. Harlem knew it. God had told him so.
God had breathed life into the fish and the frogs, the dogs with mangy fur and the bears with a taste for blood. He had also breathed life into the people who shot the bears to wear their pelts and melt their fat into soaps and candles. And finally, God had breathed life into a single bathroom wall.
Mr. Harlem’s feet had been planted on the ground for exactly 3 days, 11 hours, 41 minutes, and 12 seconds. He had blinked exactly 50,201 times. It was a Tuesday. God had appeared to him on a Saturday.
This is what he said:
“I, as God, have breathed life into your bathroom wall; just as I have breathed life into the fish and the frogs, the dogs with mangy fur and the bears with a taste for blood. Look upon this wall, in all its glory, and you will discover the meaning of life. Drop your gaze before becoming enlightened, and you shall bring about the end of the world itself.”
And that is all God said.
Mr. Harlem knew it was his job, and his alone, to keep his gaze fixed upon the whitewashed plaster that was holding up the rest of the earth. The weight of the world sat fat upon his eyelids. He could end it all. He could end it at any second; and no one would know the better of it.
Every time his eyes began to droop, a rumbling noise erupted from the belly of the wall. In it, he heard the sounds of the age of man. Wars waged in the name of love and wars waged in the name of hatred sang sweet melodies to Mr. Harlem’s ears. Cries of an unwanted newborn baby emanated from the core of the cheap plaster. Dean Harlem heard a gentle purr; the motor of a hearse that had carried a dead man through the streets of St. Petersburg, seventeen years ago to the day. An organ played the funeral march. The music was beautiful.
Many people called Mr. Harlem a cynic. Others called him a crank. Most people called him nothing, for they had no idea of his very existence. It didn’t bother Mr. Harlem. Seclusion had a certain quality about it.
He kept his gaze on the wall, searching for the meaning of life. He counted out loud to keep himself awake. As a child, he had once tried counting to a million. He was never able to. As a child, he had also tried to isolate himself from the few human beings who seemed to love him. He had succeeded.
Mr. Harlem wondered why God had chosen him, of all people, to discover the meaning of life. It must have been a mistake. He thought dreamily of shutting his sore eyes, resting in eternal peace; along with the rest of mankind. He refrained from doing so. He had little hope in humanity, but could not accept the idea of a world being eradicated in vain. After all, he was Mr. Dean Harlem, now the caretaker of mankind.
A sudden knocking exploded from the wall. It split Mr. Harlem’s eardrum, and proceeded to explore the crevices of his very being. The pounding grew louder. Dean Harlem grew wearier. The sound soon filled the bowels of his mind, echoing through every chamber of his body. He was filled with thousands of years of human suffering; bitter relics of love and vile screams of hatred. His body writhed in madness. He had forgotten emotion. Life in sterile apathy had always been so easy.
As the knocking escalated, Mr. Harlem digressed. His mind rambled on about the emptiness of life as his body ached for relief. His thoughts swirled into a miserable stew of cynicism as his swelling heartbeat sped malnourished blood to his weak old heart. Aches exploded in his chest. His heart stopped. He had not found the meaning of life, but instead run across the futility of it. His thoughts withered into nothingness, as his eyes closed peacefully. He had ended the world. He had saved mankind from itself.
All was done with.
Mr. Dean Harlem was found sprawled dead on his bathroom floor. His head had split open, and droplets of blood snaked their way through the crevices in the linoleum tile. Dean Harlem had once loved a woman. The lovers would run amok; frolicking through his apartment with the luxuries life could afford them. They had once spilled a bottle of red wine in the folly of young lust. It too had snaked its way through the crevices in the linoleum tile.
God looked down upon Mr. Harlem’s corpse. He had breathed life into the fish and the frogs, the dogs with mangy fur and the bears with a taste for blood. He had also breathed life into the people who shot the bears to wear their pelts and melt their fat into soaps and candles. And finally, God had breathed life into Mr. Dean Harlem and a single bathroom wall.
Mr. Dean Harlem couldn’t take his eyes off his bathroom wall. The moment he did, it would crumble into a thousand pieces onto the linoleum tile floor, and bring about the end of the world. Tile was a funny thing; so cold and impersonal. He might as well have covered his floor in people.
In the day of Mr. Harlem, “people” was a term given to a group of creatures who spent most of their time worrying about things that didn’t even matter. They also liked to destroy eachother; sometimes in pursuit of something valuable, sometimes just because. Dean Harlem was ashamed to be a person.
On the surface, the wall seemed as sturdy and static as any other wall. But it wasn’t. Its insides were alive, and only Mr. Harlem knew it. God had told him so.
God had breathed life into the fish and the frogs, the dogs with mangy fur and the bears with a taste for blood. He had also breathed life into the people who shot the bears to wear their pelts and melt their fat into soaps and candles. And finally, God had breathed life into a single bathroom wall.
Mr. Harlem’s feet had been planted on the ground for exactly 3 days, 11 hours, 41 minutes, and 12 seconds. He had blinked exactly 50,201 times. It was a Tuesday. God had appeared to him on a Saturday.
This is what he said:
“I, as God, have breathed life into your bathroom wall; just as I have breathed life into the fish and the frogs, the dogs with mangy fur and the bears with a taste for blood. Look upon this wall, in all its glory, and you will discover the meaning of life. Drop your gaze before becoming enlightened, and you shall bring about the end of the world itself.”
And that is all God said.
Mr. Harlem knew it was his job, and his alone, to keep his gaze fixed upon the whitewashed plaster that was holding up the rest of the earth. The weight of the world sat fat upon his eyelids. He could end it all. He could end it at any second; and no one would know the better of it.
Every time his eyes began to droop, a rumbling noise erupted from the belly of the wall. In it, he heard the sounds of the age of man. Wars waged in the name of love and wars waged in the name of hatred sang sweet melodies to Mr. Harlem’s ears. Cries of an unwanted newborn baby emanated from the core of the cheap plaster. Dean Harlem heard a gentle purr; the motor of a hearse that had carried a dead man through the streets of St. Petersburg, seventeen years ago to the day. An organ played the funeral march. The music was beautiful.
Many people called Mr. Harlem a cynic. Others called him a crank. Most people called him nothing, for they had no idea of his very existence. It didn’t bother Mr. Harlem. Seclusion had a certain quality about it.
He kept his gaze on the wall, searching for the meaning of life. He counted out loud to keep himself awake. As a child, he had once tried counting to a million. He was never able to. As a child, he had also tried to isolate himself from the few human beings who seemed to love him. He had succeeded.
Mr. Harlem wondered why God had chosen him, of all people, to discover the meaning of life. It must have been a mistake. He thought dreamily of shutting his sore eyes, resting in eternal peace; along with the rest of mankind. He refrained from doing so. He had little hope in humanity, but could not accept the idea of a world being eradicated in vain. After all, he was Mr. Dean Harlem, now the caretaker of mankind.
A sudden knocking exploded from the wall. It split Mr. Harlem’s eardrum, and proceeded to explore the crevices of his very being. The pounding grew louder. Dean Harlem grew wearier. The sound soon filled the bowels of his mind, echoing through every chamber of his body. He was filled with thousands of years of human suffering; bitter relics of love and vile screams of hatred. His body writhed in madness. He had forgotten emotion. Life in sterile apathy had always been so easy.
As the knocking escalated, Mr. Harlem digressed. His mind rambled on about the emptiness of life as his body ached for relief. His thoughts swirled into a miserable stew of cynicism as his swelling heartbeat sped malnourished blood to his weak old heart. Aches exploded in his chest. His heart stopped. He had not found the meaning of life, but instead run across the futility of it. His thoughts withered into nothingness, as his eyes closed peacefully. He had ended the world. He had saved mankind from itself.
All was done with.
Mr. Dean Harlem was found sprawled dead on his bathroom floor. His head had split open, and droplets of blood snaked their way through the crevices in the linoleum tile. Dean Harlem had once loved a woman. The lovers would run amok; frolicking through his apartment with the luxuries life could afford them. They had once spilled a bottle of red wine in the folly of young lust. It too had snaked its way through the crevices in the linoleum tile.
God looked down upon Mr. Harlem’s corpse. He had breathed life into the fish and the frogs, the dogs with mangy fur and the bears with a taste for blood. He had also breathed life into the people who shot the bears to wear their pelts and melt their fat into soaps and candles. And finally, God had breathed life into Mr. Dean Harlem and a single bathroom wall.