Cureless, a (really short) one shot.
Posted: Fri Aug 17, 2012 1:19 am
Hello all! I'm a newbie here, and to writing anything fictional, for that matter. (Unless you count some of my lab data, harr harr.) I fully realize I've nothing to do here in a forum of people who can legitimately put their thoughts into funny little words that somehow invoke feelings in us -other than to comment and praise others, of course! But here I am, against my better judgment, posting what I guess qualifies as a bit of a short stream of consciousness. There will be errors, awkward sentences, and flaky storytelling -but I'd love for you all to tell me those things as you see them! I'll take your criticisms to heart. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
TL;DR: Intro is over.
Here he was; one (1) Hisao Nakai, weathered from 18 years, 4 months, 8 days, 5 hours, 10 minutes and 37 seconds of gulps of coffee, scuffed shins from soccer, wrong turns and gallons of red paint for a teenager’s town. He’d only really been alive for a fraction less than that- while in the stillness of a stopped heart, one’s cells may scream and burn and feel alive in ways they never should, the ephemeral bit that makes a person a person shrinks and sputters. But that couldn’t be further from his mind even as he laid confined, white-on-white, hearing the monotonous hum of the machinery quieting his body and feeding his brain. For he was a man consumed, as all men should be at some time in their lives, by a sickness that ripped logic and sense from him and cremated their remains with passion. The disease was the pretty sort, but not in the same luxurious way a man can sink into his own despair and revel in it, fall in love with it, obsess himself with his own misery. Her arms could not match the diaphanous clouds of self-pity, flesh and blood as they were. Her hair, while light enough to reflect the sun, could not blind him, could not lay flat on his eyes and cause them to open to darkness, to convince him that the world had no bearing but what he could find inside himself. The curls that did fall on Hisao’s face allowed windows of light, which burned at first, as all light does, but also gave him the opportunity to observe, to identify what afflicted him.
“Lilly” he said.
No ailment had ever been given so beautiful a name.
TL;DR: Intro is over.
Here he was; one (1) Hisao Nakai, weathered from 18 years, 4 months, 8 days, 5 hours, 10 minutes and 37 seconds of gulps of coffee, scuffed shins from soccer, wrong turns and gallons of red paint for a teenager’s town. He’d only really been alive for a fraction less than that- while in the stillness of a stopped heart, one’s cells may scream and burn and feel alive in ways they never should, the ephemeral bit that makes a person a person shrinks and sputters. But that couldn’t be further from his mind even as he laid confined, white-on-white, hearing the monotonous hum of the machinery quieting his body and feeding his brain. For he was a man consumed, as all men should be at some time in their lives, by a sickness that ripped logic and sense from him and cremated their remains with passion. The disease was the pretty sort, but not in the same luxurious way a man can sink into his own despair and revel in it, fall in love with it, obsess himself with his own misery. Her arms could not match the diaphanous clouds of self-pity, flesh and blood as they were. Her hair, while light enough to reflect the sun, could not blind him, could not lay flat on his eyes and cause them to open to darkness, to convince him that the world had no bearing but what he could find inside himself. The curls that did fall on Hisao’s face allowed windows of light, which burned at first, as all light does, but also gave him the opportunity to observe, to identify what afflicted him.
“Lilly” he said.
No ailment had ever been given so beautiful a name.