This is the beginning of a story that I'm writing for my creative writing
class project, as well as being what i wrote for this
stream-of-consciousness surrealy assignment in that class.
Stained glass is surrounding me, bluing up the curtains and
purpling the linoleum. I have my own rose-colored wrap-around sunglasses,
I made pink along one whole corner and wall. Bilious they said and then
conjunctivitis, pinkeye the kitchen has pinkeye. I like it. Yellow makes
me sick so this is my sunlight.
Glass is like water but hard, especially the kind with
waves and ripples in it. It's like the water pouring over the edges of the
sink right now in great sheets. The water was pink too but I washed it
out. It was pink like the window light but not like the window light
because it came from blood. Which the window color didn't. Unless the sun
bleeds. Do you think the sun bleeds? Sunburns are pink and they can bleed.
I don't know what happened but there is only one here now.
Is there? He went to the hospital but I do not know. I do not feel alone.
I never feel alone not with David and Thom. But inside I
do sometimes. Is that why he cut himself? Did he feel alone? Was it Art?
Was it an accident? Where did they go? My feet are wet.
Why why why why why why can't I tell myself from ten years
away what happens next? Why can I write to me then now and not me now
then? Did that make sense? Where is my head? Why am I writing this all
down instead of cleaning up? I tried to mop I remember but more water just
came and then I stopped with my pen and the kitchen chair. The back of a
grocery list. Milk cheese eggs bread blood. Flour, rice milk, olive oil,
blood. Blood oranges, pomegranates, blood pudding, dark chocolate.
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