Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Sleep Deprivation Situation

This was a stream of conscious short story I wrote.

Hope you like it.


My eyes are getting heavy, my cheeks are getting warm. I can feel the cruel mistress of sleep pulling me closer and closer into an embrace with her. I’m slipping to one side, going slack, losing cognitive capabilities, drifting.

I didn’t think my eyes could get any heavier…





I jerk my head up. I think I dozed off there for a second. Oh. There goes the focus in my eyes and now there are two glasses of water in front of me; the real one and his translucent twin. I want…







What? I don’t even remember finishing my last though. Did I finish my last thought?





I need to get to bed. Sleep deprivation is a very serious situation. Especially if you’re driving. I’m not driving…





I’m going to hit the curb! Oh. I must have dozed off again. Shit. I have to stay awake. What’s so damned hard about that? I just want to remain conscious. Is that so much to ask?









SNORE!

What? What was that? Was that me? Fuck. This is getting embarrassing. I’m trying to watch a movie with my friends and my own body betrays me…







I hate this, Why did I think I was looking at a glass or hitting a curb? Was that in the movie? Fuck it. I can’t stay awake…

…any…

…zzzz….

…zzzz…
…zzzz…
zzz…..zzz

That Sting in Your Chest

It turns out that I really like writing stories like this.

I think I could blame Graham Greene as much as anybody. And Kurt Vonnegut had one story like this and I think it's one of my favorites. But it just feels so good to pour stuff like this onto paper.

It stings. It shouldn’t sting, but it does. I tell myself it shouldn’t. That dulls it a bit. I reassure myself and that dulls it a bit more.

But it never goes away.

We’re not together and it shouldn’t hurt. We have no obligation to each other.

It doesn’t matter. That’s what I tell myself. I tell myself I’m just not that type of guy.

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach when I finally noticed that she’d disappeared with another man. It wasn’t exactly jealousy that gripped my heart and kicked me in the gut. It was that foolish longing, that hope that if things were slightly different, that could be me in there, holding her close, kissing passionately, hands delicately wandering.

But, alas, it isn’t me. Could it ever be? It’s doubtful. I’m hopeful, though.

On the way home, where she’s with me again, in close proximity is both sweet bliss and torture.

Although I’m almost sure (or so I tell myself) that nothing happened in with the other man, we were both acting like fools, reacting like fools. I tried so hard to hide my longing and she grew defensive. After we got back, I had to work up enough courage to tell her how I felt. I had to give her some idea.

I had to.

The pain of my message weighted my chest down with such force I could barely breath. My words burst from me, as awkwardly as possible it seemed, “I think… On some level, and I don’t think…in a creepy way, I love you. I love being with you, I love being around you. Yeah. I love you. There.”

And so there was the first and closest time I had ever come to telling her that I loved her, to someone who only “might” reciprocate. And not the love of lust or sex. The romantic love of being around someone, regardless of circumstance.

Her eyes meet mine and we have that moment where would kiss if circumstances hadn’t dictated that an impossibility. My breath leaves me again, she’s taken it. She reaches over to give me a consoling hug. Consoling to both of us, not just to me.

“I know how you feel. I really enjoy being with you.” Is that pain in her voice?

I’m so full of pain and joy and anguish that I can’t even tell.

I leave before I give into my urges, filled equally with happiness and forlorn regret.

Stalker

Just so everyone knows, I found this in a stack of old books and magazines. This got published in a magazine of student publications when I was a junior in High School.

I didn't spend very much time on it then and I refrained from doing as little as possible to it in inserting it into the computer so you might see how my writing has evolved in the last decade.

Enjoy.

You walk through the tall weeds, stooping down. Your hind legs propel you smoothly, your fore-legs balance you correctly. Your fur rustles in anticipation as you examine your prey from a distance. It moves slowly and sluggishly but it can be fast as needed.

You edge toward it as your father taught you, making little noise.

It doesn’t notice you.

You circle to the left, gliding out of the tall weeds and into the tall grass. The green, unshorn grass crackles and bristles beneath you as you motion forward as your keen sense of hearing alerts you to the presence of something behind you. You glance backward; your slanted eyes take in a human visage. You pay no attention to the witless thing and move on, blinking as you readjust to the light of the field in front of you.

You circle back into the weeds, traversing slowly back and forth toward the creature.

Now you’re within ten yards of it.

You can almost taste its warm blood in your mouth as you near it. A few more yards and you’ll be ready to pounce.

You move ever forward, keeping as prostrate as possible. As you move into the next yard a manicured lawn appears beneath your feet. You dodge it because it offers you no cover and dash behind the nearest tree.

You circle around the diminutive grass and traverse into the weeds.

Now you’re behind it.

Approaching cautiously, you wait. It turns, nearly seeing you rustling behind it.

You get a slight chill as you move into the thicker weeds, just in case you aroused his suspicion.

Hunting was strenuous when you were smaller, but now you’re skilled. Your eyes absorb the light outside the dim shadows, getting a better fix on your kill.

It looks straight into your eyes and you into its. Now is the time. Your powerful hind legs thrust you forward.

Being a feline has its advantages. Your front claws now extended, you grind them into the birds body on contact.

It certainly was the time.

The bird pecks at your face as you claw and bite your dinner. It pecks you with all of it’s might, but you swat it as though it was nothing. Finally the bird gives up the fight, allowing itself to be won as a meal.

You tear at it with your teeth. The warm blood trickles down your mouth and throat.

You savor the occasion.

You gnaw at it for a few minutes and then decide to show your trophy to your owners.

As you walk into your house, you notice one of the smaller humans making grotesque noises and flees at the sight of you. You continue to the eating hall and scratch at your masters leg, dropping the bird at her feet.

You’ll never understand why they shoo you out of the house with a broom whenever this happens.

Monday, November 05, 2007

One Last Kiss

During the movie it felt as though they were sitting with a seat between them. Marion had planned on ending what little relationship they had months ago, but the puppy-dog look in Luke’s eyes always managed to keep her around a little while longer. She wasn’t interested in a relationship with anyone with any amount of weight to it, all she needed were friends and confidantes; people to be there for her. She reached a point in her life where the arms of a man held no comfort for her.

Luke had made the unfortunate mistake of buying tickets to a comedy. Neither of them laughed during the film. The palpable tension between them made the funny movie seem sad.

He’d suspected what was coming, but didn’t know when. She knew it was coming, but didn’t know when the courage to do it would be there.

The credits of the film ended. Neither of them had the inclination to rise before then. Luke stood first, shaking his head. “It was….uh…a good movie.”

“Sure.” She didn’t know what to say.

“Mm-hmmmm.” Neither did he.


To read the rest of this story, you can purchase it here for the Kindle in the collection "The Accidental Date and Other Stories of Longing, Romance and Woe", or click the button below to order a .PDF of the collection.

The collection contains 11 other stories from me, Bryan Young.