The ember on the end of a thin cigarette was the only means of light in the shadowed front lawn of a large Victorian house. The ember was the only evidence to the presence of an unknown stranger. The stranger clung to the shadows clumsily as he moved about the yard. His blood shot eyes, and battle with gravity just signs of the man’s inebriation. His eyes remained fixated on the small pools of light spilling out onto the porch. He remained ever constant, waiting for his signal. The gears in the strangers head where churning, methodically piecing things together in his drunken state. The porch lights had been out for quite some time when suddenly movement took hold of the stranger’s body. Propelling him forward into the night, up the stairs and to the front door. The man lifted the edge of the door matt and fumbled around until he found they key that he knew had to be there. He opened the door slightly; gliding it just fast enough to the point where the hinges wouldn’t make a noise. The stranger had rehearsed these actions in his head many times before. He was inside, standing once again alone in the shadows of the living room. His obsession began to make his heart race, though he had not yet reached the apex of his secret agenda. “Up the stairs, five paces, first door on the left.” His mind walked his body through the process. His meticulous planning was yielding the benefits he had only dreamed of. There he was standing alongside the bed, hunched over his mental fixation. And there she lay, blissfully unaware of her nightly visitor. He looked up and down the curves of her body. Even in sleep with no care taken toward her appearance she was beautiful he thought.
The stranger couldn’t help but notice her breasts. Her night gown plunged just so to reveal the youthful skin of her cleavage. It made his heart beat even faster; he exhaled to compensate for his aroused state. He found his mind racing through every possible sexual outcome that the two of them could share together. Almost all of them nothing more than fantasies. “If she would only listen” he whispered as he began removing his clothing. He neatly piled his clothing on the floor, careful to not wake the beauty that lay before him. He crawled gently into the bed beside her. Doing his best not to stir her into consciousness, he pleaded that she would not take notice to his presence. This was the farthest he had ever made it, his fantasy was playing out perfectly and his experience was almost euphoric. He craned his neck forward in his most bold attempt yet. He pressed his soft lips upon her forehead, locking them into a kiss. And he whispered faintly…. “Goodnight honey.” and the stranger fell asleep beside his wife, delaying the fight of his late night arrival till the next morning.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Miserable Existence
If a chair could talk, Mr. Office rolling chair would scream bloody murder right now. And Mr. Chair would also probably call attention to the weight capacity clearly marked on his warning label. You see John Mc Fatty, the mc of course for McDonalds and the fatty to bring attention to the obesity obviously caused by the McDonalds, was two doughnuts and a churro away from exploding human innards all across the office space. John was the sort of guy that made you hug the wall as you passed him in the hall way. The kind of guy that you can’t help but notice in any situation, but no one felt bad for John. Watching him inhale a lunch the size of a large 3rd grader without hesitation had no merits for sympathy. Hell if John ate your lunch out of the work fridge even though it was clearly labeled with your name on it and did so nearly every week, you wouldn’t feel bad for him either.
At the very least you would think a man of Johns “stature” would have some good jokes. A funny fat guy gets cut some slack. It’s more social acceptable to be fat when you are funny. But John, well John couldn’t make you laugh if he fell over and rolled. And everyone knows how funny a fat person falling can be. John was the kind of plain and boring that made a documentary about grass sound interesting. His depression permeated through his body, and out into the air space that surrounded him. Like a depression cloud that could suck the will to live out of anyone who entered it. His dead end job, his loneliness, and not seeing his penis in over 15 years, all shit that adds up and its sum is depressing John. Even his name was boring and depressing.
“Hey john, here are the figures for last month’s budget” Linda’s one sentence gave John the pinnacle of his human interaction for the day. Aside from placing his order at various fast food joints of course. Linda handed the papers off, and just as quickly as she showed up, she was gone. No one spent more time with John than was necessary for work related interactions. John fumbled with the papers, and a sweat started to sweep across his body like a tsunami. Simple tasks such as moving or even breathing where a daunting chore for John, resulting in a massive sweat any time he so much as moved a finger. John began pecking away at his keyboard… slowly. John wasn’t even good at his job. He was hardly capable of producing the bare minimums required by his job. And his finger peck typing method was no help. John wasn’t a fast learner, hell john wasn’t a learner at all. He didn’t learn from his mistakes, he didn’t learn from others, he didn’t even learn from the boring discovery channel documentaries he watched at three in the morning. But John was reaching his breaking point. As he continued his index fingers hunt for the h key he examined his life. Looking back at your sad excuse for a life when you are already depressed is a suicidal combination… Literally.
That was it, the straw that broke the camel’s back. The h key, john’s desperate search for the dam key with the h on it was enough. “Fuck the H key” john stammered as his chin fat jiggled to the tune of his voice. He removed himself from the rolling chair, erecting his massive weight above his legs. Mr. Chair perked up in relief. John penguined his way to the elevator. His chubby finger engulfed the 48th floor button. The elevator began to chug upward, struggling to push the weight of its cargo to the appropriate floor. John stumbled from the elevator to the roof access stairwell. Already exhausted from his journey John’s lungs consumed as much of the air around him as they could. John toed the edge of the roof. Every event in his life culminated to this one moment. His first Twinkie started the ball rolling, and the dam h key was the final push. As he took that fateful step forward into thin air his plunge began. As john fell, faster than your average suicide victim, a smile broke the plane of his face for the first time in years. Tom Petty’s “free fallin” played in his ears. The concrete below was much too thin to break John’s fall. His last moments on earth where his best. They were also quite the spectacle. For a man of John’s size, any other form of suicide would have been more practical. There is just something ridiculous about a 400 pound man plummeting to earth.
The End… Obviously.
At the very least you would think a man of Johns “stature” would have some good jokes. A funny fat guy gets cut some slack. It’s more social acceptable to be fat when you are funny. But John, well John couldn’t make you laugh if he fell over and rolled. And everyone knows how funny a fat person falling can be. John was the kind of plain and boring that made a documentary about grass sound interesting. His depression permeated through his body, and out into the air space that surrounded him. Like a depression cloud that could suck the will to live out of anyone who entered it. His dead end job, his loneliness, and not seeing his penis in over 15 years, all shit that adds up and its sum is depressing John. Even his name was boring and depressing.
“Hey john, here are the figures for last month’s budget” Linda’s one sentence gave John the pinnacle of his human interaction for the day. Aside from placing his order at various fast food joints of course. Linda handed the papers off, and just as quickly as she showed up, she was gone. No one spent more time with John than was necessary for work related interactions. John fumbled with the papers, and a sweat started to sweep across his body like a tsunami. Simple tasks such as moving or even breathing where a daunting chore for John, resulting in a massive sweat any time he so much as moved a finger. John began pecking away at his keyboard… slowly. John wasn’t even good at his job. He was hardly capable of producing the bare minimums required by his job. And his finger peck typing method was no help. John wasn’t a fast learner, hell john wasn’t a learner at all. He didn’t learn from his mistakes, he didn’t learn from others, he didn’t even learn from the boring discovery channel documentaries he watched at three in the morning. But John was reaching his breaking point. As he continued his index fingers hunt for the h key he examined his life. Looking back at your sad excuse for a life when you are already depressed is a suicidal combination… Literally.
That was it, the straw that broke the camel’s back. The h key, john’s desperate search for the dam key with the h on it was enough. “Fuck the H key” john stammered as his chin fat jiggled to the tune of his voice. He removed himself from the rolling chair, erecting his massive weight above his legs. Mr. Chair perked up in relief. John penguined his way to the elevator. His chubby finger engulfed the 48th floor button. The elevator began to chug upward, struggling to push the weight of its cargo to the appropriate floor. John stumbled from the elevator to the roof access stairwell. Already exhausted from his journey John’s lungs consumed as much of the air around him as they could. John toed the edge of the roof. Every event in his life culminated to this one moment. His first Twinkie started the ball rolling, and the dam h key was the final push. As he took that fateful step forward into thin air his plunge began. As john fell, faster than your average suicide victim, a smile broke the plane of his face for the first time in years. Tom Petty’s “free fallin” played in his ears. The concrete below was much too thin to break John’s fall. His last moments on earth where his best. They were also quite the spectacle. For a man of John’s size, any other form of suicide would have been more practical. There is just something ridiculous about a 400 pound man plummeting to earth.
The End… Obviously.
Ryan is a WHAT?!?!?!
I am a writer. i have been ever since i had a basic understand of language and how to write it down on paper, really the only qualifications you need to be a self proclaimed writer. traditionally i have destroyed the evidence of my writings, tucking them away in drawers or losing them in cluttered notebooks, but i have decieded to start sharing my writing with who ever wants to read them. be it you read them for their mocking value, or something deeper doesnt really matter to me. this is the blog of ryan baynes... a writer.
P.S. i understand i am grammatically and spelling challenged. Also i said i was a writer... i DIDN'T say i was good one.
P.S. i understand i am grammatically and spelling challenged. Also i said i was a writer... i DIDN'T say i was good one.
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