Future-Past
By cait
Get up, make another drink. The soothing burning heats her throat and ignites her brain. Neurons fly, conducted now by cherry brandy. Her mass expands below her, gently flattening, filling the hard wooden chair. Sagging breasts and nipples rest gently on the flacid rolls of her abdomen. She leans forward, grabbing the chair's arms and hobbles it and herself closer to the monolithic desk infront of her. Closer to the unwritten masterpiece waiting there for her. She picks up the pen carressing its smooth hard length between her fingers. She fondles it, hoping for genious to spurt forth in quick spontaneous streams of silken black ink She places it between her teeth, tasting bitter plastic. She remains thus; Grandfather clock clanging loudly the quarter hour, then half, then next. Finally. She can begin, repeating a process 40 years new to her; surprising her still.the ideal me in forty years? Written March 21st, 2002 © on Mar 21 2002 01:43 PM PST 0 • 10
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"Get up,..."