𐌀𐌀: 5/30/10

Here is an excerpt of my prose

'It was simple enough walking through the forest, to pause, and inhale the perfumes of the flowers. Through the open arms of branches, the sun was climbing down to every flower and gleamed against the forest floor. The fluorescent leaves; grasped the light and emitted golden flecks into the air. With every passing step, the aromatic oils distended only his nostrils. A sense of euphoria grasped him, and he flew into the air, where he could see the tops of all the trees. A speckled blanket of gold, red and orange hues cascaded down the dwindling path. The paths of trees, poured down the mountain like arteries and veins. With each breath, his body inflated, and the vibrant colors of the flowers dispensed out of his ears. Each breath was followed by colorful smog that flew behind him in the air. Every breath offered a distinct and obscured smell that captivated him. Looking amongst the rows of red leaves, that reflected the light, he began to quicken his flight. As he then could return back to the odors of the flowers.

Before his feet had even been solely been placed on the ground, he scurried from flower to flower, to indulge in the aroma of each and every one. His disposition began to alternate between periods of utter repulse to majestic surrealism. He reached out, and grasped a blossom, and then another, and another. All the smells had managed to mix with the previous fragrances and he wanted to end his compulsion. The scent of the flowers was overpowering and revolting. The potent odor crammed his nostrils and he could taste the utter repulse of the blooms. Nevertheless, the flowers, with their sinister grin and wondrous fragility caused him to not be able to impede himself. He began to force feed the flowers of the forest, cramming the delicate petals into his mouth. His hands began to tremble, and were struggling to grasp the effervescent blossoms that were flourishing. When each flower had been picked, a few more would grow in its place. The blooms were exploding, and surrounding his small delicate features. He was irrepressible and was replaced by pure insanity. His teeth were chipped from the power of his own jaws, and his nails turned into claws. His palms were coated in the sap of the stems due to his immense crushing, as he was to gain the most powerful scent from each blossom.'

Around him, the ground began to quiver, and the trees began to change their shape. They contorted into exaggerated and menacing facial features. The bark, peeled off and exposed an under layer of creeping insects that crawled in and out of the nose and mouth of the tree’s. The branch of the aged tree’s converted into warped and grotesque hands, with long fingernails and wrinkling skin. The leaves deteriorated and crumbled off the foliage, and fell like powder onto the floor. The ground was brittle, and thirsty. Out of nowhere, the bitter ash began to congeal from a heavy rain that poured above him. This then, smothered his body in the tar.

He was unable to run steadily through the muck due to the sludge that had coated his entire body. He flung himself at the nearest tree, and began to slowly pull his pulsating body up the laughing tree trunk. The branches of the trees slashed at his clothing, and playfully, through him around and in-between the branches. Frightened, he loped forward, hoping to escape from his terrifying ordeal. He scratched at the eyes of the trees, and eventually was let go. With each step, the root’s of the tree’s tripped him and caused him to fall back into the black mud. His fingernail’s scraped against the roots, and his palms bled from the strenuous pulls on his hands. The root’s tangled and entwined his body, as he was too slick to avoid the dominant power of the trees.

He had been sucked into a whirlpool of roots and all the colors of all of his flowers that he had indulged in were now surrounding him. He tumbled down, and down through a never-ending vortex of vibrant colors and eclectic roots. Flowers of all seasons smirked at him and flirted around him in circles. Within the vortex, a tunnel of light was shining through the bottom of the current. In a matter of seconds, the root’s grabbed a hold of him once again, and through him out of the bottom at full speed.

After three hours, he came to, and was alarmed to be surrounded by a room, which was white as bone. There was no beginning or end of the setting he was now in. There was no color, or smell, only a red door with a golden handle. Not being able to withstand the inability to smell anything he opened the only door. Once the door was opened, he was presented with the same room, with the same door. The only exception was a framed photo of a family portrait. With utter confusion he stepped closer to the photograph, to investigate why it was there. To his horror, spindling vines began to creep out from behind the photo frame, and the faces in the photo, distorted to reveal the faces of insects. The vines entangled the photograph and broke the glass of the frame, releasing the insects into the room. As a reaction, he slowly backed out of the room, hoping to be presented with a different one. To his surprise, he was presented with a brick wall with the carvings of his fingernails that had harmed the roots. There was what appeared to be etching’s in the wall. Looking straight ahead he noticed small fragments of his fingernails that were lodged in the wall. In pure disbelief, he closed the same door. As his only option, he reopened the only door. With his arms holding on to the handle of the door, he peered out to assess the entire situation. It was infinite. He slammed the door this time, and paced back and forth inside of the white room. His skin was the color of porcelain. He staggered back and forth, choking on the overpowering fragrance in the air. Looking over his shoulder, he was willing to try to open he door one last time. He reached for the handle, which was covered in the blood from his palms. With a firm hand, he tried to turn the doorknob, but his hand was too slippery. It was unable to turn.

Due to the immense pain in his hands, he peered down at them. The blood on his hands was the strongest scent he could smell. It was a mixture of the odors of the flowers, and the fragrance of his humanity. He playfully began to draw poppies with his trembling index finger. He laughed obnoxiously, and carried on. Poppies of all shapes and sizes began to appear on the white walls of the room. Each poppy that was drawn was increasingly abstract due to his exhaustion and loss of blood. He did not finish ‘decorating’ his room until the entire room was the color of red. He laid down on the cold red floor and breathed in the smell of the poppies. He rolled, played and laughed in ecstasy.

By now, he was certain that all other odors were obsolete, as the scent of his own blood was consuming all the others. The intense fragrance caused his eyes to close and his body to continue, into a deep sleep where he laid there, smiling. He dreamt that poppies, with their sensuous grin, devoured his remains.

Also, here are a few short poems I have written

'Oh no, not again

Its this wondrous sensitivity to change

Hear me, its soft-spoken

Paint the sound of time on the palm of your hand.

These lines, of you palm, map the way

Porcelain skin

save the glitter of the stars in the jar under your lamp

Where you disperse them across the sky.'