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My throat burned. The acrid tablet turned to mush at my oesophagus and made me half splutter half vomit it back up. This was my last hit. I pondered the foamy half-diluted white hexagon in the palm of my hand and began to rub it into my gums. The other alternative was eyeballs and the idea didn’t attract me at all.
A hiss distracted me temporarily, just the pipes venting out heat. I swiftly returned to the task at hand until my numb gums ached. The flaw with the boiler room was the constant distractions. The hiss of a vent pipe or the clankety-clunk of the boiler starting up on a morning. But most of all the rats. Oh the rats, they would gnaw and nibble with their filthy verminous teeth, biting through anything they so chose. But I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t meant to be here.
I took a sharp breath through my teeth, inhaling the hot pipe-air from the windowless chamber and slumped against the shapeless wall of the room. Waiting was such sweet agony. The awkward countdown a child suffers on Christmas eve. I patiently tapped a pipe with my knuckle and waited for the foamy white to creep into my veins. The drip-drop of a not-fully-tightened pipe echoed down my spine, contorting me backward as the sickness crept in.
My eyes opened in a posy-dotted forest with swing-leap vines and the gleeful hiccup of burrowing tripplehops and sniggerluffs. I rose to my feet to explore my fantasy playground and dashed among the neverending meadows of purple and honeycomb with a joyous skip in my step. I approached a daintily flowing stream when my eyes widened. A small creature squeaking happily as it dashed in and out of the stream. The small animal, perhaps the size of a small dog, was a pale brown in colour and covered in unpredictably soft-to-the-touch scales from head to toe. Four small legs propped this wondrous creature up, and a long worm-like tail protruded from its rear. The creature looked up at me, and with a mischievous smile said, “Hold me.” I couldn’t resist, I picked the little fellow up at once and he began licking my face gently as I rocked him in my arms, sending both of us into a peaceful slumber.
I awoke to find the river, which had previously run marmalade orange, had turned into no more than a black puddle. I anxiously rotated my head around my now-apocalyptic lost-paradise to find corrugated iron and prison-bar pipes surrounding me. My head tilted down to enquire as to the source of the squirming in my fingers. A crimson shrouded rat gazed up at me momentarily before continuing its assault on my throat.
It’s hard to scream for help without a voice box.
A hiss distracted me temporarily, just the pipes venting out heat. I swiftly returned to the task at hand until my numb gums ached. The flaw with the boiler room was the constant distractions. The hiss of a vent pipe or the clankety-clunk of the boiler starting up on a morning. But most of all the rats. Oh the rats, they would gnaw and nibble with their filthy verminous teeth, biting through anything they so chose. But I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t meant to be here.
I took a sharp breath through my teeth, inhaling the hot pipe-air from the windowless chamber and slumped against the shapeless wall of the room. Waiting was such sweet agony. The awkward countdown a child suffers on Christmas eve. I patiently tapped a pipe with my knuckle and waited for the foamy white to creep into my veins. The drip-drop of a not-fully-tightened pipe echoed down my spine, contorting me backward as the sickness crept in.
My eyes opened in a posy-dotted forest with swing-leap vines and the gleeful hiccup of burrowing tripplehops and sniggerluffs. I rose to my feet to explore my fantasy playground and dashed among the neverending meadows of purple and honeycomb with a joyous skip in my step. I approached a daintily flowing stream when my eyes widened. A small creature squeaking happily as it dashed in and out of the stream. The small animal, perhaps the size of a small dog, was a pale brown in colour and covered in unpredictably soft-to-the-touch scales from head to toe. Four small legs propped this wondrous creature up, and a long worm-like tail protruded from its rear. The creature looked up at me, and with a mischievous smile said, “Hold me.” I couldn’t resist, I picked the little fellow up at once and he began licking my face gently as I rocked him in my arms, sending both of us into a peaceful slumber.
I awoke to find the river, which had previously run marmalade orange, had turned into no more than a black puddle. I anxiously rotated my head around my now-apocalyptic lost-paradise to find corrugated iron and prison-bar pipes surrounding me. My head tilted down to enquire as to the source of the squirming in my fingers. A crimson shrouded rat gazed up at me momentarily before continuing its assault on my throat.
It’s hard to scream for help without a voice box.
I think the deal with the drugs theme is it accounts for many degrees of abstractness, which I'm tampering with.
Gives me a motive to float half-mast with blatantly unfitting adjectives.
Gives me a motive to float half-mast with blatantly unfitting adjectives.
Oh I liked that. I definitely liked that :)
Er ... lovely?
This + t'other story leads me to conclude that you're a filthy druggie. And that's that.
This + t'other story leads me to conclude that you're a filthy druggie. And that's that.
I enjoyed that. Entertaining, and a good ending.
Eurgh. Nice ending.
"tripplehops and sniggerluffs"
Nice, especially the reverie bit.
Nice, especially the reverie bit.
My throat burned. The acrid tablet turned to mush at my oesophagus and made me half splutter half vomit it back up. This was my last hit. I pondered the foamy half-diluted white hexagon in the palm of my hand and began to rub it into my gums. The other alternative was eyeballs and the idea didn’t attract me at all.
A hiss distracted me temporarily, just the pipes venting out heat. I swiftly returned to the task at hand until my numb gums ached. The flaw with the boiler room was the constant distractions. The hiss of a vent pipe or the clankety-clunk of the boiler starting up on a morning. But most of all the rats. Oh the rats, they would gnaw and nibble with their filthy verminous teeth, biting through anything they so chose. But I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t meant to be here.
I took a sharp breath through my teeth, inhaling the hot pipe-air from the windowless chamber and slumped against the shapeless wall of the room. Waiting was such sweet agony. The awkward countdown a child suffers on Christmas eve. I patiently tapped a pipe with my knuckle and waited for the foamy white to creep into my veins. The drip-drop of a not-fully-tightened pipe echoed down my spine, contorting me backward as the sickness crept in.
My eyes opened in a posy-dotted forest with swing-leap vines and the gleeful hiccup of burrowing tripplehops and sniggerluffs. I rose to my feet to explore my fantasy playground and dashed among the neverending meadows of purple and honeycomb with a joyous skip in my step. I approached a daintily flowing stream when my eyes widened. A small creature squeaking happily as it dashed in and out of the stream. The small animal, perhaps the size of a small dog, was a pale brown in colour and covered in unpredictably soft-to-the-touch scales from head to toe. Four small legs propped this wondrous creature up, and a long worm-like tail protruded from its rear. The creature looked up at me, and with a mischievous smile said, “Hold me.” I couldn’t resist, I picked the little fellow up at once and he began licking my face gently as I rocked him in my arms, sending both of us into a peaceful slumber.
I awoke to find the river, which had previously run marmalade orange, had turned into no more than a black puddle. I anxiously rotated my head around my now-apocalyptic lost-paradise to find corrugated iron and prison-bar pipes surrounding me. My head tilted down to enquire as to the source of the squirming in my fingers. A crimson shrouded rat gazed up at me momentarily before continuing its assault on my throat.
It’s hard to scream for help without a voice box.
A hiss distracted me temporarily, just the pipes venting out heat. I swiftly returned to the task at hand until my numb gums ached. The flaw with the boiler room was the constant distractions. The hiss of a vent pipe or the clankety-clunk of the boiler starting up on a morning. But most of all the rats. Oh the rats, they would gnaw and nibble with their filthy verminous teeth, biting through anything they so chose. But I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t meant to be here.
I took a sharp breath through my teeth, inhaling the hot pipe-air from the windowless chamber and slumped against the shapeless wall of the room. Waiting was such sweet agony. The awkward countdown a child suffers on Christmas eve. I patiently tapped a pipe with my knuckle and waited for the foamy white to creep into my veins. The drip-drop of a not-fully-tightened pipe echoed down my spine, contorting me backward as the sickness crept in.
My eyes opened in a posy-dotted forest with swing-leap vines and the gleeful hiccup of burrowing tripplehops and sniggerluffs. I rose to my feet to explore my fantasy playground and dashed among the neverending meadows of purple and honeycomb with a joyous skip in my step. I approached a daintily flowing stream when my eyes widened. A small creature squeaking happily as it dashed in and out of the stream. The small animal, perhaps the size of a small dog, was a pale brown in colour and covered in unpredictably soft-to-the-touch scales from head to toe. Four small legs propped this wondrous creature up, and a long worm-like tail protruded from its rear. The creature looked up at me, and with a mischievous smile said, “Hold me.” I couldn’t resist, I picked the little fellow up at once and he began licking my face gently as I rocked him in my arms, sending both of us into a peaceful slumber.
I awoke to find the river, which had previously run marmalade orange, had turned into no more than a black puddle. I anxiously rotated my head around my now-apocalyptic lost-paradise to find corrugated iron and prison-bar pipes surrounding me. My head tilted down to enquire as to the source of the squirming in my fingers. A crimson shrouded rat gazed up at me momentarily before continuing its assault on my throat.
It’s hard to scream for help without a voice box.