Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Crazies (FICTION)

She runs over to the window, suddenly, without a warning. The cottage is tidy and silent, hardly lived-in. Two pillows are propped neatly at each end of the 3 couches encircling the wooden table. An old-fashioned lamp stands in the corner, unlit. The street outside has been quiet for decades; so quiet, that even the trees have stopped listening. Yet, she gets up from her chair and she runs to the window. She is a mess of a person. "Listen..." she hisses at no one. 

From the outside, she looks like a madwoman. Her gaze alone gives her away. On the inside, I have no idea who she is. She is the wack I watch from my bedroom window on days and some nights. She gives my life a kind of purpose it never had before. I must protect the community from her in case she turns violent. The problem is, she has never showed any inclinations towards violence, and there is no community. There is only me and her on the street, and the nearest neighbor is a 7-minute jog away. The rest of the houses are deserted. A bunch of loons. 

She is organizing 3 magazines sitting on top of her wooden coffee table. They are all National Geographics from various months and years. She places the yellow one first, then the other yellow one, and then the white. After a few seconds of stillness, she picks up the white one and puts it at the front, followed by the two yellows. What a wack! Why not arrange in the most obvious way? Chronologically backwards. Well, she never has visitors anyway, so why she bothers with the tidying in the first place is beyond me. 

I wake up from an uneasy sleep and grab my binoculars, as has become the custom. She has, at this ungodly hour, bought a hamster. He is a furry crawly thing, discomforting to both sight and feel. But she pets him harmoniously without interruption. 

There is a knock on my door. Who could that be?! I never get any visitors. I start to look for my gun, but after 15 minutes, I realize I don't have one. The knocking has remained consistent, relentless. I fling open the door. 

There is a woman standing there, a beautiful young woman, handing me a bouquet of flowers. No, they are not flowers, they are poison. She tells me to take the pills, but I see right through her. Her intention is not to heal. I try to tell her, to warn her about the woman across the street, but she just rolls her eyes and walks away. She walks...down the hall. Where did this hall come from? Perhaps this is a tunnel, but I see no light at the end. Where is my quiet street?


  1. very similar to the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. feeling wise.

    what i like the most is that the strangeness sort of develops and becomes overwhelming as the story goes on. in the beginning i did not think that the narrator was himself insane.

    i think you could go even more insane and abstract... you should definitely continue this one!

  2. Yeah, maybe I will develop this one further. Or at least, the concept of it. In the beginning, I myself didn't know that the narrator was himself crazy either; sometimes, these things just develop on their own!