Swimming in Floods

[jack_babalon]

Standing at the top of the basement stairs, I cannot help but feel ridiculous outfitted in my toothpaste green flippers, black satin swimtrunks and pencil yellow rimmed snorkel mask. At the bottom, a lone bulb dangling with the solemnity of a hanged man illuminates the rising waters that have flooded the space. It's deep enough down there that the first three steps have been swallowed up whole. Across the surface of the flood a fleet of science fiction paperbacks float aimlessly around islands of empty sweaters and hollow winter coats. For a moment I feel as if I'm witnessing some bizare crime scene - a drowning of invisible men at an old bookstore, one located perhaps in colder climates. Bookshelves stand half submerged along the walls, the remenants of a lost skyline after a catastrophic deluge. Ziggurats of cardboard boxes sink into the gray waters, beneath which serpent shadows flit and dart restless through the abandoned temples of treadmill and weight bench.

"So one more time, Baby... what the fuck am I doing here?"

Lisa, standing quietly behind me holding high a lantern, points over my shoulder to the water heater tank at the far end of the basement. Sitting propped on top of it is a painting. Thick with acrylic, oil and dust it depicts a sinking galleon, a hazy silhoutte faintly discerned through a miasma of swirling mist and crashing waves. From here you can almost see the drowning sailors vanishing beneath the tempest and the ominous tentacles rising around the hull of the ship. Only thing is the painting is upside down and from the verdigree spotted bronze frame a steady trickle of water is pouring out.

The solution is obvious.

I nod wearily in agreement, pat the bread knife tucked into the back of my shorts reassuringly and begin to awkwardly flop one foot at a time down the stairs. When I'm ankle deep I release a shiver at the chill soaking through my skin. I look back up at her with the same wide imploring eyes I usually reserve for getting out of an arguement or soliciting a distinctly ball tickling round of felatio. She has not moved, the pointed finger a stern reminder of my destination and the lantern light reflecting of the surface casting liquid shadows that waver across her skin. Her eyes are narrow and focused and do not meet my own. Their meaning could not be any clearer: "GO!"

The water's up to my knees now. I turn back towards the painting, lower the mask's visor over the stare and suckle the mouth piece of the snorkel. Spreading my arms out into a cross, I close them quick into a silent outstretched clap and with a sigh that distorts out of the tube's opening into a Darth Vader phone sex moan... I dive right in.

***

Continued...(?)

Comments

[rideout-dbza.livejournal.com]

CONTINUE

[jackbabalon23.livejournal.com]

Hmmm, well to be honest it was over a week since I wrote this and I've kinda lost the thread of the narrative, but I'll try my best to pick it back up soonish.