yarrr.

I adore thee I AO 

I AM the unbecomer. the bringer of end. 

I AO

We coexist like roots entwining through the oceans of our mindless streams of thought

I AO

I AM

I∑Ω¡ 

'Nother Story+novella

The Melancholy of the Starving Artist

Thomas Shapiro

2/l/2009

“On a day just like any other, Harold awoke from his sleep. He turned off his alarm clock and shifted out of bed slowly, careful not to wake up his 2 siblings who slept beside him. Sluggishly, he walked to the bathroom, dragging his feet on the ground.

As he walked into the bathroom he placed one foot on the cold linoleum tiles and shivered as he switched on the bright fluorescent lights. His eyes soon adjusted to the harsh lighting in the room, wanting to escape the cold as quickly as possible he quickly turned on the shower to full heat. Harold waited the several minutes it normally took for the water to adjust, leaning on the sink as he contemplated the day’s work to come. He got in the shower, it was warm and soothing; his favorite part of the day. He opened his mouth, taking big gulps of hot water.”

The writer stopped his frantic typing.

“Ah! Why am I even trying anymore?”

He was way behind his deadline for his next piece in his opus A Day in the Life. His editor had been on his ass for weeks. The writer of course had no trouble writing up until then. He had received some slight fame for the previous 3 books, even a review in The New Yorker, who called his books a “smashing success”.

Despite all of this, every time that he set out to write lately, all that came out was more of the same drivel that his editor had sneered at when he submitted it the first time. Now, his manuscript was a week late, and he was dangerously close to losing his job. He hadn’t slept for several days, surviving only on coffee and Rothman Reds.

Sheets of paper lay in disarray across the floor, crumpled up thoughts and ideas. He started to write again, progressively losing his patience:

“As Harold got out of the shower, a sense of anger consumed him. ‘Why should I be expected to work everyday, while siblings rest easy in the bed?’ He rubbed his body vigorously with the towel, and then flung it to the floor. He reached for his toothpaste and toothbrush. He walked back to his bedroom with both items in hand, then hurled them at his siblings with such force that the toothpaste exploded, spattering navy blue viscous fluids over their nightgowns….”

“ARRRRRGH!” The writer slammed the laptop screen shut. He got up and stomped about the living room in frenzy, papers fluttering about him. His cat, a neurotic tabby, eyed him with caution, knowing that at any minute this volatile man could turn against him as well. The writer walked into the bathroom and submerged his face in icy cool water; he looked up at his drippy face, bags under his eyes and a sizeable beard and moustache growing. With his fingers he pushed and prodded at his face, no feeling.  The writer grabbed at his hair with his hands as one might attempt to grab at an idea.

Abandoning this method, he walked into the kitchen throwing on the exhaust fan to the window. He hit the gasoline to the stove and its flame came to life, he stooped to light his cigarette. The writer started to relax, “OK, deep breaths, you can do this…” he started to doze off, forgetting entirely about the burning cigarette in his hand. Several minutes had passed- he hadn’t noticed that the ember of his cigarette was burning dangerously close to his finger. “OW, SHIT. BALLS”. His fingers were painfully enflamed and glowed a ruby red were they were singed by his cigarette.

This was the last straw. He grabbed a pair of slacks that lay strewn upon the floor amongst the rest of his laundry, then his worn leather jacket, throwing it over his wife beater. Then after lacing up his boots, grabbing his cigarettes and keys, he trudged to the door and left the tiny cluttered apartment, the cat was relieved.

As he walked outside, the chill breeze of winter hit him violently. It was 10 degrees Fahrenheit outside (not counting wind chill), and he instantly regretted his brash decision to not dress warmer. He zipped up his jacket, hoping to at least give himself some defense from the harsh climate. He went for his cigarettes, but when the chill hit his hands he shoved them deep into his jean pockets.

He often did these walks whenever he needed to clear his head. The fresh air helped take away some of his anxiety and he was able to walk silently and clear his head But as he walked, all he could think about was the impending deadline and the urgency with which he had to hand something in to his editor. Yet the writer continued to walk, he approached his local coffee shop, a place where he used to enjoy sitting and typing on his computer. The stuff he had written there was terrible material, but he had enjoyed it nonetheless. He walked in. There she was, “the girl behind the counter”. He had loved her since he had first set eyes on her several weeks before. She was very thin, medium stature, fair complexioned, with bright fuchsia dreadlocks, which she beaded. She always wore heavy eyeliner that gave her eyes a dull gray tone. He liked that the most about her. Despite his attraction to her he had always been too timid to go up and talk to her. She appeared to him to be “untouchable”, so he watched from a distance.

“Today will be different.” he told himself with an air of confidence.

“Today I’ll talk to her.” He approached the counter and stood there stupefied by the sight of his goddess. His heart pounding against his chest he managed to mumble his order: “Coffee. Black”. The barista turned to the machine, pouring out the scalding liquid into a disposable cup. She handed it to him.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. That’ll be one fifty.”

            The writer scrounged through his pocket and dropped an assortment of coins onto the counter, a few rolled and fell onto the floor, and he winced with embarrassment as each one fell to the ground. The Barista had already collected the appropriate change and had continued her work by the time he had collected all of his change from the floor.

“Thank you.” he said.

She didn’t look up. The writer picked up his coffee and walked back home, another story unfolding in his mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Novella

The Story with no end in sight

There was once an old gentleman who lived inside of a bubble at the bottom of a gorge. His family had gone on a vacation with him many years ago and had forgotten that he was with them. Thus in order to survive, he made himself a new hme at the bottom f the gorge.

            After frequent attacks by coyotes and rattlesnakes the old man had developed a physically toughened exterior. He was elderly, but his body was still fresh and stong.

One day a coyote appeared at his door. He could hear its claws scratching at the slimsy wooden door. The old man sighed and lifted the large rock he had prepared for just this sort of occasion. He opened the door with a sweeping motion and as he raised the rock to crush the skull of the brutish whelp, it called out in a low grumble.

“Don’t kill me, for I be a buxom babe!”

“But, how could this be?” the man thought

Though his sight was beginning to fail him, he could see quite clearly that this was in fact a coyote and not a dame.

“I will grant you three wishes.”

“Don’t genies generally do that?” the old man inquired.

The Coyote stopped and paused for thought.

“Well, just because that is the case in most folklore, does not mean it’s the same here.”

The man was convinced and allowed the coyote to enter his house. The man was never heard from again.

 

 

 

 

Since everyone else is doing it.... PHOTO POSTS

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Is there any reason i share my thoughts?