Morning

A Story by Alan B.

Free thought.

I am awake. The first sight is the striations of wispy, ephemeral white lines with square panes superimposed over them; the first smell is that of bread being toasted. It is this scent that assured my mind I have not died after losing consciousness at some time in the night. With the recognition of the room, my universe takes it right-angled straight-edged form, making unyielding demarcation lines on movement, thought and action. Depressed ennui takes it casual yet firm hold.

Walk down the stairs. At the bottom I touch the grid-like pattern of tiled floor. Each tile is rectangular and instead of all rows of tiles lining up directly under one another squarely, each tiles' edges are lined up with the middle of the two tiles on the row above it. This is the tiniest of variations the builder allowed in the very strict house. In the kitchen I take the morning amenities and sit at the round table. My attention is on the undulating wooden patterns that spread like sound waves, moving over under and around eternally.

© 2014 Alan B.

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Chadvonswan

To truly understand this piece, one must simulate an atomic blast by singing the eyebrow hairs off of ones self with an orange Bic lighter. Then--after the acrid scent of citrus hangs like a ghost in the air--one must apply the sweet salacious salt to the seventh degree burns and repeatedly stick ones finger in and out and in and out of a floridan orange's genetalia. Then--after the symphonic fruit has climaxed--one must ingest the orange through the reverse process of digestion--I wont paint this picture but Im sure one can paint it for themselves. Finally, after the orange has been digested out the mouth, one must gently (gently) peel off the twelve layers of clorox scented skins from the fruit and read the hidden code imprinted in the core of the orange ... which clearly states what this story is about. Thats how I did it. Nice write man! It reeks of genius and stings the nostrils when I inhale the ink.