Welcome to Terminus
Jul. 22nd, 2005 11:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonHe trys to rinse the headache out of his hangover with a cold shower. He has no choice, hot water is'nt one of the amenities offered in his hotel room. The blast of the nozzle muffles out the words of the arguement coming from next door, just not the emotion. So a crushed love rattles like a passing train, shaking the dresser mirror, humming off the windows & reverbing right off the wall until the heartbreak-hate cascades like a waterfall. He's never seen them, for all he knows they never leave the room. He just hears them go at it every night. Two giant insects trapped in a glass jar buzzing death threats at each other and smashing futiley against the walls of their room to get out. Something crashes and now the fight has made it's way to the adjoining bathroom.
"Where would you go? Huh? You ain't twenty two no more, you ain't got no friends, you nothing but another faggot ass...."
"FUCK YOU!" The toliet in the next room rattles, a glass smashes. A door slams. He turns off the water and presses his head against the shower door and listens to someone sob loudly only a few feet away. Later he sits in front of the TV watching the second of the two channels he receives on the b&w TV set. He leaves the volume off and lets the city outside provide the soundtrack. Static perpetualy snows in front of some WASP housewife. She sits on her sofa and weeps as some figure too blurred by the reception paces back and forth behind her. There are sirens outside on Ponce. Ponce De Leon Ave. What asshole went out looking for the fountain of youth and came up with this place? He gets up and walks over to the window overlooking the parking lot, the Avenue and a small resteraunt that's doing so well it's never open. There's a guy face first on the ground with his hands behind his head. From up here it looks like he's floating in a sea of crowd. There is another man laying flat on his back looking up at him. He stares closer and realizes that theres a puddle of blood underneath him contrasting against his green jumpsuit. The Biker-Boys were at it again. A bunch of crotch rocket brothers who like to meet up at Dugans and show off their rides once a week. A docked fleet of sleek rice burners in every shade in the neon rainbow spill over from the Dugan's lot to the hotels. The police are dispersing the crowd. An ambulance trys to sneak into the party. He watches the paramed's lift up the cat in the green jumpsuit. Dead eyes remaining fixed on him until he is buried in the back of the ambulance. He walks back and turns off the TV and sits on his bed. Now the couple next door are fucking. Loud. The bed frame gives off a death rattle and someone moans a supplication to a God too terrible to name here.
Adam reaches under his bed and drags out his duffle bag. It's the same bag he had when he ran away from home in Long Island and wound up in the Philadelphia Greyhound. It's the same bag that neatly carried all his belongings five years later when he was banished. He empties it out and finds what he's looking for. A smaller brown bag that carries his toiletries: Shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, cheap aftershave, and the reason he never leaves it out in the bathroom, his 9mm. The same 9mm Dave gave him before they walked in on Tibo's crib. The weight of it feels
good in his hand. Too good. He puts it back under his pillow, vaguely reassured of his own safety. He tries to the gun from himself if he's gonna be drinking.
"This ain't right!" It's the first time he's spoken all day and the sound of his own voice startles him. He feels trapped in a mistake that won't end. He's the Man In The High Castle all of a sudden. He's living in the wrong history and he does'nt know how to get out. Lacking the I Ching to act as an oracle and not trusting his beaten up Thoth deck he decides to take his chances with Stitchomancy, the art of divination in which the querant opens to a random page of a randomly selected book to find an excerpt that applies to the situation at hand.
"How Do I get out?" He asks the flourescent air.
He closes his eyes and flips the pages of a book snatched out of a stack of novels, paperbacks, textbooks & magazines that make up Adam's improvised nightstand.
O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water? Why fade these children of the spring? born but to smile & fall. Ah! Thel is like a watry bow, and like a parting cloud, Like a reflection in a glass: like shadows in the water
Adam sighs.
"Fuckin' Blake" and flings the book to the corner of the room. He lays down on the bed, the gun under his pillow the neighbors still fucking and the sirens still wailing. Adam closes his eyes and waits for an oblivion that still has'nt arrived.
Wanna have fun with Stitchomancy? No! Well if you change your mind~
http://www.facade.com/stichomancy
"Where would you go? Huh? You ain't twenty two no more, you ain't got no friends, you nothing but another faggot ass...."
"FUCK YOU!" The toliet in the next room rattles, a glass smashes. A door slams. He turns off the water and presses his head against the shower door and listens to someone sob loudly only a few feet away. Later he sits in front of the TV watching the second of the two channels he receives on the b&w TV set. He leaves the volume off and lets the city outside provide the soundtrack. Static perpetualy snows in front of some WASP housewife. She sits on her sofa and weeps as some figure too blurred by the reception paces back and forth behind her. There are sirens outside on Ponce. Ponce De Leon Ave. What asshole went out looking for the fountain of youth and came up with this place? He gets up and walks over to the window overlooking the parking lot, the Avenue and a small resteraunt that's doing so well it's never open. There's a guy face first on the ground with his hands behind his head. From up here it looks like he's floating in a sea of crowd. There is another man laying flat on his back looking up at him. He stares closer and realizes that theres a puddle of blood underneath him contrasting against his green jumpsuit. The Biker-Boys were at it again. A bunch of crotch rocket brothers who like to meet up at Dugans and show off their rides once a week. A docked fleet of sleek rice burners in every shade in the neon rainbow spill over from the Dugan's lot to the hotels. The police are dispersing the crowd. An ambulance trys to sneak into the party. He watches the paramed's lift up the cat in the green jumpsuit. Dead eyes remaining fixed on him until he is buried in the back of the ambulance. He walks back and turns off the TV and sits on his bed. Now the couple next door are fucking. Loud. The bed frame gives off a death rattle and someone moans a supplication to a God too terrible to name here.
Adam reaches under his bed and drags out his duffle bag. It's the same bag he had when he ran away from home in Long Island and wound up in the Philadelphia Greyhound. It's the same bag that neatly carried all his belongings five years later when he was banished. He empties it out and finds what he's looking for. A smaller brown bag that carries his toiletries: Shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, cheap aftershave, and the reason he never leaves it out in the bathroom, his 9mm. The same 9mm Dave gave him before they walked in on Tibo's crib. The weight of it feels
good in his hand. Too good. He puts it back under his pillow, vaguely reassured of his own safety. He tries to the gun from himself if he's gonna be drinking.
"This ain't right!" It's the first time he's spoken all day and the sound of his own voice startles him. He feels trapped in a mistake that won't end. He's the Man In The High Castle all of a sudden. He's living in the wrong history and he does'nt know how to get out. Lacking the I Ching to act as an oracle and not trusting his beaten up Thoth deck he decides to take his chances with Stitchomancy, the art of divination in which the querant opens to a random page of a randomly selected book to find an excerpt that applies to the situation at hand.
"How Do I get out?" He asks the flourescent air.
He closes his eyes and flips the pages of a book snatched out of a stack of novels, paperbacks, textbooks & magazines that make up Adam's improvised nightstand.
O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water? Why fade these children of the spring? born but to smile & fall. Ah! Thel is like a watry bow, and like a parting cloud, Like a reflection in a glass: like shadows in the water
Adam sighs.
"Fuckin' Blake" and flings the book to the corner of the room. He lays down on the bed, the gun under his pillow the neighbors still fucking and the sirens still wailing. Adam closes his eyes and waits for an oblivion that still has'nt arrived.
Wanna have fun with Stitchomancy? No! Well if you change your mind~
http://www.facade.com/stichomancy