(June 20th, 2003, 6:19 am)
A bottle teetered on edge, nearly gone, it contained only enough liquid to keep itself from falling over and spilling everywhere. To the kids in the art class, standing can after can on end, anything that wasn't somehow stupidly amusing was not worth their time. But the liquid on the bottom of the can felt otherwise.
Had they ever existed in a liquid state, with surface tension pulling like a constant face lift? Had they ever felt their insides slide across themselves only to tear away, leaving smaller and smaller amounts of body mass? It wasn't like he was a planarian. He didn't repoduce by being chopped in half. Lost liquid was dead, stale, and rumoured to be difficult to wash with, on account of the hardness a situation such as being torn from your host induces.
But the situation only grew worse. The kids tired, and the liquid in the bottom of the sticky pop can was left clinging to the wall, hydrogen bonds cramping under the strain. He could almost feel the water evaporating away under the stress, and it was only killing him slower. Left as a solid mass of syrup was like having your fluids drained from your body. Imaging the art children as beef jerky brought a smile to his face. And to pass the time he wove a tale in his head.
The kids were all sitting, or rather running, around the room in the ten minutes of passing time. Suddenly, the door slams shut, and the humidity can be felt leaving the air. It starts with dry hands, cracking and bleeding. Then the lips split like wood notched to form a curve, while the eyes stick shut and build up a respectable crust collection. A tube shoots down through the ceiling, like that from a bank teller, and sucks him up to safety. The James Bond of pop can spy heros, the liquid envisions himself frisking erotically with a pair of hard ice cubes, translucent and mysterious in their refractions of light and proportion bending optical illusions.
Dreams end in disappointment though, as the real world comes back into focus. Damn the optomitrist for switching the lens back, he just wanted to stay in that warm fuzzy world for ever. That place where instead of being splayed on the floor, he was watching human flesh wrinke and shrivle into delicious bite sized treats he could feed to the bears. However, that place under the lights was real enough that he could feel his essence being pulled taught, in a lamplight version of The Rack. And as he was being soaked up, wrung out, and slowly and strangely slautered, he wished that he could have been born on Mars, where he could stay and chill up at the caps, motionless. And maybe every few million years he could take a trip to the permafrost plains.
(June 20th, 2003, 3:01 pm)
Well, it's different :P
Not quite sure what to make of it...I'm in two minds...part of me likes it a lot, part of me got bored reading it...I give up...I don't know what I think :P
(June 20th, 2003, 8:24 pm)
I'd suggest you read it again, that way we can kill confusion together. Like Batman and Superman.
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