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Jordan Newman Jordan Newman
Recommendations: 15

Butterfly's In My Stomach, Cement Boots for Shoes (Chapter 1)


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More from Jordan Newman

i see angels above me, i see demons below me, fighting over heaven.
i loved her more when i was sober.
i don't want a second chance.
love starts with that of a flickerin' cigarette
i swear i could feel your love before i knew your name.

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Under the Double Star - Chapter One

It had been more than a slow week for me at work; therefore when the phone on my desk erupted with the piercing shrill that is known through out the universe as a ring. And, due to the slow month of work I know it goes without saying (or come across with any shock factor) to confess it awoke me from a deep slumber.


I couldn't recall now how many rings had been exploding in my ear canal before it was able to drag me from the bowels of my subconsciousness; but it must have been intruding my peaceful bliss of unconscious existence because I had no answering machine. Now, you don't have to be a(n) (un)successful private investigator like myself to deduce that this arsehole was annoyingly persistent. When the reality you awake to has nothing to offer you (besides a splitting headache) it is often difficult to arouse oneself from their comfortable sedated sleep. This day's attempt to graze through life in a hazy-sleep quickly faded into that of a pipe dream.


Still the phone continued to painfully echo through the empty caverns of my mind; so my judgement got the best of me and before I knew it (or could stop it) auto-pilot was on. My hand reached for the phone as my mouth spoke the words, “Fuck...Ing...Hell...”


“Hello?” My voice boomed, at least in my head it did. Dots and spots sprinkled across my vision as the syllables exploded like fireworks in the night time.


“Hello, Kris,” a robotic voice replied, nonchalantly (at least, as nonchalant a robot could be). “Did I wake you? My apologies.” Either I was talking to a pyscho-robo-dick-from-the-future or this was just another orchestrated prank. For the third time that month I cursed the inventor of Craigslist.


“Naw, I was just baking a cake.” I swear things I say sound funny in my head before I actually birth them into sound.


“Ya? What's the occasion?” The techno asshole inquired.


“For not falling for idiot pranks.”


CLICK


“Dick lick...” Instantaneously I was asleep again; therefor I am not aware of the time length that followed, but again I awoke to a phone ringing.


“Hello?” I asked in a polite telemarketing voice. Apparently I must have thought the robo-call was only a dream.


“Why, Kris, did you hang up?” If robots could sound sad, I imagine his voice was sad.


“I have a fear of robots. Therapist said it's a delusion but still, who am I to argue with my gut feeling?” See, I can be funny. “In fact, I have an unhealthy paranoia of zombies and vampires to.”


“Is this better, then?” The voice changed from emotionless bursts of words to a smooth, static, British accent (again, you don't need to be detective of the year to figure out it was a voice modifier).


“No, I don't think so,” I stood up, stretched, “I hate them too.” CLICK. Again I hung up the phone; but this time I took preemptive measures and unplugged the phone from the wall. I knew sleep was as lost as Atlantis, no more sand left from the Sandman for me to enjoy. Even if I had an ounce of fatigue left from my eighteen hour sleep binge, now that my cognitive awareness was in full swing, unfortunately so was my human bodily functions. My stomach roared with an Ethiopian's ferocious cry for food. While I did not live in a third world country, I sure as hell was living like a second class citizen; therefore I felt sympathy for those unlucky bastards for my cupboards were just as bare as their farm's fields.


The only envy I had of robots to being human was their absolution from being bound to obey the universal master- hunger. When starvation begins to take hold, not only is your body stripped of nutrition and comfort, your thoughts are also robbed from you. Any goal or dream you would hold dear is quickly eradicated and just like those blasted zombies, only one stream of thought is processed in your head... BRAINS... I mean, food.


Without a second's thought to any danger this prank call could actually hold against me, I threw on an Italian Shower to cover the weeks dingy odour that held onto me like chains to a slave. A pair of dollar store glasses sat uncomfortable and uneven on my symmetric face; yet still the days sunlight pierced through my pupils like a lobotomy.


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Next: If Misery Loves Company, Why Do I Still Remain Alone?