"And He Destines His Despair"
Dec. 5th, 2006 05:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ateolfi wrote this story for this stupid contest on this stupid site for winning a $1,000 new bedroom thing...it did give me an idea for a little story so i wrote a little story...gee, i didn't win or nothin'...but here it is:
My cat sits in my room under an insurmountable weight of objects. Old boxes and stray pages flutter and tower in cascades of disuse. He finds motion difficult. His corpulence drags and pulls against the piles of debris blocking any straight path across the floor. It is moving upward. It threatens his life with a simple concession to gravity.
Audio cassettes are his biggest enemy. I have tried storing them in a little, pink-floral box of cardboard nestled gently under my stereo, but they spill out, across (some have made it all the way beneath my bed). Empty boxes trouble him from all directions. Most came in the mail and have long since been shed from purpose. Plastic rises and moves for throat. It will choke him; it smiles. He backs away and bats his paws helplessly.
He looks up at me, rolling about the filth I have cast him. He reminds me of a poem. Wires, wires, every where, nor any record to record. I allude to both a famous rime and the many months since my band has tried to make use of this equipment, much less practice. I am also enjoying the different pronunciations and subtle shifts in meaning/grammar wreathing “record”’s written homogeny.
My cat is suffering under an overpowering stench. I used to take care in maintaining my laundry. This, too, I have let slide. The dirty surrounds the basket (filled with the clean I haven’t bothered to put away). It precludes his passage. . . in drifts beside the bed, quag folds and shakes beneath his feet, sinking, unable to leap free into comfort.
Beneath the glare of sickly white walls bare—paint staled, old in molecular mold—he struggles his eyes in the blate glare, hazing a mist thicker than his iris narrows. The only thing worse than the walls naked is the majority of area plastered with band posters and other assorted juvenilia. My cat twists away in shame. In his spare time, he is operating the tape machines discarded on the floor—one sixteen tracks, the other two—spinning reels, encoiling messages (wrapped up in vain hopes of receipt): NEED ROOM MAKE BEDROOM DESIGN $1,000 REDESIGN BEDROOM MAKEOVER!! This same message bounces through channels, across tracks between the two machines in looplike form with his gleaming paws destining path and purpose.
My cat stretches forward arms taut, claws out, waves of fat rippling Gargantuan spasms that crash beneath his skin: titanic, prodigious, colossal, hippopotoamic, enormous, cyclopean, Homeric, leviathan, staggering, mammoth, huge. His reach is steady (of heroic stature) out through hopelessness on pillars of courage and pride. And I sit in shambles looking down at his pathetic attempts with a longing for nothing but help. So now I do all I can. Give my bedroom a $1,000 makeover or my cat will die!
My cat sits in my room under an insurmountable weight of objects. Old boxes and stray pages flutter and tower in cascades of disuse. He finds motion difficult. His corpulence drags and pulls against the piles of debris blocking any straight path across the floor. It is moving upward. It threatens his life with a simple concession to gravity.
Audio cassettes are his biggest enemy. I have tried storing them in a little, pink-floral box of cardboard nestled gently under my stereo, but they spill out, across (some have made it all the way beneath my bed). Empty boxes trouble him from all directions. Most came in the mail and have long since been shed from purpose. Plastic rises and moves for throat. It will choke him; it smiles. He backs away and bats his paws helplessly.
He looks up at me, rolling about the filth I have cast him. He reminds me of a poem. Wires, wires, every where, nor any record to record. I allude to both a famous rime and the many months since my band has tried to make use of this equipment, much less practice. I am also enjoying the different pronunciations and subtle shifts in meaning/grammar wreathing “record”’s written homogeny.
My cat is suffering under an overpowering stench. I used to take care in maintaining my laundry. This, too, I have let slide. The dirty surrounds the basket (filled with the clean I haven’t bothered to put away). It precludes his passage. . . in drifts beside the bed, quag folds and shakes beneath his feet, sinking, unable to leap free into comfort.
Beneath the glare of sickly white walls bare—paint staled, old in molecular mold—he struggles his eyes in the blate glare, hazing a mist thicker than his iris narrows. The only thing worse than the walls naked is the majority of area plastered with band posters and other assorted juvenilia. My cat twists away in shame. In his spare time, he is operating the tape machines discarded on the floor—one sixteen tracks, the other two—spinning reels, encoiling messages (wrapped up in vain hopes of receipt): NEED ROOM MAKE BEDROOM DESIGN $1,000 REDESIGN BEDROOM MAKEOVER!! This same message bounces through channels, across tracks between the two machines in looplike form with his gleaming paws destining path and purpose.
My cat stretches forward arms taut, claws out, waves of fat rippling Gargantuan spasms that crash beneath his skin: titanic, prodigious, colossal, hippopotoamic, enormous, cyclopean, Homeric, leviathan, staggering, mammoth, huge. His reach is steady (of heroic stature) out through hopelessness on pillars of courage and pride. And I sit in shambles looking down at his pathetic attempts with a longing for nothing but help. So now I do all I can. Give my bedroom a $1,000 makeover or my cat will die!
