Ice Cold

Steven shuddered again and reached his toe into the stream.  Again he pulled it back as the freezing water shot through his body like a bee sting.  It was like this every morning, it seemed to him.  His landlord assured him the problem had been fixed.  That trollish, impish man, with a face that looked like it had been carved out of driftwood was useless; simply a black hole into which Steven deposited entirely too much money every month.  Apparently hot water was too much to ask for.

            Steven held his breath, and jumped into the freezing water.  The scream he let out could have summoned skeletons from their tombs.  He was sure, even now, someone was placing a call to the police to investigate what could only be described as the screams of someone in the throes of death.  This would not be an entirely inaccurate description.  The universe was conspiring against Steven, and it enjoyed his pain.  He would not give it the satisfaction.  With gritted teeth he tried to hurry through his routine, quickly, but deliberately.  If he was going to die here, he would at least be clean.

            This happened all too often to Steven these days, so the hurried routine no longer felt foreign.  This was perhaps the worst part.  What would become of his life when this becomes the norm?  He thought this as he watched the chilly water splash against the palm tree shower curtain.  Susan had bought him that as a joke.  The joke, always, was lost on Steven,

The soap felt like hail against his skin, and he cursed again under his breath.  He imagined he was on a tropical beach somewhere, with the kind of beverage your drink out of a coconut shell in his hand.  The sun beating down on him felt wonderful, that unique feeling the sun give to human skin.  This, Steven thought, was a much preferable place to be than here, in his apartment, trying to take a shower with no hot water. 

A day in the Life

Here is a section from the newest piece, "A day in the Life."  Enjoy.

Steven stood in front of the mirror, black comb in hand.  He prepared yet again to fight the battle he waged on a daily basis.  He forced the plastic through his thick curls, and let out a cry of frustration as it got caught in his thick curls.  He breathed heavily again, trying to push the frustration out before this ended like it did every other morning, with him throwing the comb across the room like a tiny plastic javelin.  The universe had conspired to make this difficult for him.  He knew no matter what he did it would not matter.  In 20 minutes his hair would have reverted into a thick mass of black atop his head, like a demonic birds nest.  But, Steven thought, he needed to make the attempt, otherwise he would go insane.  He sighed, and began again.

Blind Dates are Terrible

I added a selection from a new Piece, Blind Dates are Terrible,  It is a little longer, so you can find the link to the right under pages.  Enjoy.

Breathing

Steven was going to die.  He knew this as a fact.  His body was being deprived of oxygen at an alarming rate.  Without that vital component, his life would slowly grind to a halt amidst a hail of sniffles and coughs.  That would be his legacy, Steven thought. 

            He clutched the soiled handkerchief in his hand.  It repulsed him in its nature.  He imagined all the germs and organisms that clung to its surface like it was a life raft.  This small piece of fabric was the sum of his suffering and pain, yet he could not throw it away, it was his safety net, the only thing that protected him.  In olden days, they would have condemned Steven to a far off ward on a mountaintop somewhere.  Left alone with those of his kind to wallow and groan.  This might be welcomed at this point, Steven thought.  At least then he would not have to face the looks of the others.  To them, he was a wounded animal who needed to be put down.

            Five more minutes, they told him, as he sat in this sterile, dead waiting room.  Old issues of Popular Mechanics and People littered the place like dead leaves.  This is how they get you, Steven thought.  If you aren’t suffering before you enter this place, you certainly will be when you leave.  He dared not touch anything he did not have to.  You never know what the person next to you is afflicted with.  Better to suffer within, he did not need to contract the black death, or Ebola, or one of the hundreds of other disorders he conjured in his mind.  They were all there, waiting to pounce in him if he miss-stepped at all. 

            Steven coughed again; that deep, booming cough that feels as if it will bring up pieces of your soul with it.  He clutched his savior to his mouth again and prayed he could keep it from escaping his body this time.  His eyes watered, his throat burned, his nose was a clogged passage.  This was not how man was meant to endure life, as a broken shell.  Steven just hoped, and prayed that his Doctor could give him something for this damn cold.