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    dots Submission Name: The Pleasures of Being Bobdots

    Author: colbybradshaw
    ASL Info:    24,deep south, u.s
    Elite Ratio:    3.61 - 19/19/29
    Words: 1235
    Class/Type: Story/Serious
    Total Views: 736
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 6871

       Unedited,unacceptable, a story or a beginning of a story with novel potential. Tell me what you hate about it that way i can keep it as original as possible and take out all the mundane things that general folk enjoy.

    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsThe Pleasures of Being Bobdots

    The pain would not subside. Only last night as the last vagrant rays of the sun died and coagulated in a crimson blade across the horizon, he had dreamed of a time when the narcosis would come, when pain would become the stuff of Bulfinch. She had crossed the room, knowingly, an object in her hands, and he had fallen asleep. He awoke with the thought of a great wrong, an insufferable guilt that lived within, building a nest, a base of operations from which to launch fresh attacks upon the psyche of this the poor the unfortunate frame of Bob. With the unfortunate name of Bob. The bed reeled beneath him, a see saw that was absolutely no fun at all to ride, his feet sought terra firma, and yet the ground too was gelatinous, had become some vicious mold brought as housewarming gifts from neighbors afraid to commit a social faux pas. The sun was similar to a father figure, an overwhelmingly bright pater familias lingering with fatherly thoughts transmitted via UV rays, and browned skin. I need to decide, he thought. Always this need for decisive actions, in a world limited to one decision. All thoughts and motifs are dictated by the circumstances forced upon us by the choices of others. They had called early this morning, the phone burning and buzzing in the corner like a small hungry child, which you never feed. Hello, yes I will be there momentarily. Always the answer is the same. Momentarily. It doesn’t matter if it’s a lie, sometimes a lie is all you need to find your way to the finest and most fickle of truths. He slid his pants on, methodical, always getting caught around the calfs, a muscle named after a creature he eats when he is feeling special, and encouragingly carnivorous. The peril of being an omnivore, he thinks of bears and smiles, cohorts in the crime of murdering for food. With sunglasses on and a stupid montage-like song playing in his mind, he ignites the car like a tiny combustible bomb with four wheels, and it moves in a singular convoy, carrying with it the life of a man, and the music he chooses to emblazon upon his simpletons soul. He carried all that he needed in a small briefcase, a simple attaché which he wore proudly, a sign of bondage to some, a hint of mockery in the leash like way that it had to be worn for maximum efficiency. The words were slipping out of the radio, encrypted commercials, propagandized from our youth to the point where differentiation between nationalism and our actual wants has faded from our perception, and so he listened. The road unwound before him in twists and turns and yellow lines that his car ate like pac-man roaming through an endless maze of blacktop and overpasses and large structures that have no confidantes but the impermeable shadows they give forth. People our driving next to him, but they cease to be human when encased in metal, they lose any condition that is reminiscent of some being following the pattern of an omniscient creator, they are out of the grasp of the overlord, in control of a hunk of iron that gives them the power of multiple Christ, the power to give or take away the life of another, one more form of apathetic murder that man has manufactured to his own bane, one more thing to create percentages to be looked at by socio-political scientist in the back rooms of morgue like government super structures.

    The thoughts. He pulled up to his place of employment, simultaneously throwing out the butt of a cigarette and exhaling the last disease inundated fumes. Everyone was outside, apparently there was some type of inexplicable commotion that his early morning brain could not cope with in any fashion. There was a man on the roof who seemed to be making a speech, a last minute list, or maybe he was a comedian on his last legs and sought this disgusting venue as his big gig, who knows, there was a man on top of the building. Everyone was staring up, this was different, this was a percentage looking you in the face, a numerical axiom blatantly displaying itself, this was the signature on the end of a death certificate. All of this was well and good, he saw a day off coming to him, and he was going to take it, seeing as his work place was nauseatingly tainted with a forthcoming death, he knew how this would turn out, this was Jenkins from accounting, he was a crazy bastard, and he was going to do what he said he would do. Jenkins was just a number anyways, a basement sitting starer at other peoples finances, and yearning for a solvency he would never achieve, and now he vainly stares at the concrete like a mirror that he will burst through and land in some vestigial heavenly embrace when the impact finally occurs. Walk away. Walk away from this circus, away from the symphony of pity and worry, get in your car. Drive away. The engine hums to life. No one even noticed him anyways, nondescript tie, semi fashionable blazer, gay attaché case, just a normal man in this American reich. Large flags blew next to the freeway next to car dealerships, no cohesion, no explanation for these things being near eachother, carbon dioxide, and patriotism, the celebration of the invisible boundaries. Pretty soon the day was coming where we bursted firecrackers into the sky in a mock fete of war, a lively explosion on the horizon to remind us of sacrifice. Everything here is in reverse. History doesn’t repeat itself. We are history. In us all lurks a revolution, a quiet understanding of disparity, a realization of an ill achieved lack of consciousness. We dispel any fears with silent justifications, we feed the homeless with our cast off skins, we are the locusts , the horde, we are legion, and there are not enough swine to hold our pernicious comings and goings. I’m going to get some coffee, and so he did. Starbucks was filled with strangers who said hello, and asked for news of his family and the convoluted ilk of which he was a representative. He placed the latte to his lips and felt a sense of stupidity for using the words for large, medium, and small in Italian to give the size of his drink, this was only because he lived in a an unofficially English speaking nation called America. There were actually two American Continents but this America had forced its culture upon so many societies that it was simply given the aggregated label of America, keep this in mind while reading, or don’t, keep whatever in mind that you wish, maybe its best just to pay no attention at all and let your little eyeballs waver across the page like two uncontrollable spheres of vision, that see nothing. Bob was a man, whose eyes never wavered, whose soul touched other souls and was pushed away, you’d think we were all such unconscionable bastards and yet simply, most of us weren’t equipped with the mechanisms needed to have a life filled with a soulful love or the fruition thereof.

    Submitted on 2010-05-18 09:43:03     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
    | Posted on 2010-05-18 00:00:00 | by Temidayo | [ Reply to This ]
      People our driving next to him. Error! This piece has too many distracting analogies to the point that one forgets whatever one has just read that the protagonist wants to do? Reduce and make the story more imaginable by putting less ... But the story got potential. Lets follow the action and the main thoughts of the protagonist, not every thought he has .
    | Posted on 2010-05-18 00:00:00 | by Temidayo | [ Reply to This ]

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