I was recently inspired by a story on my friend Joe's blog (check it out on j_ellyson's site) It was a post from April 25, 2009 titled Old Whiskey River and the New Born Ghost. It's not before, during or after the short story, just something loosely inspired by it. Let me know what you think. Right now I'm going through some writer's block and don't really know where to take it from here, but I'd love some feedback. The story is tentatively titled "The T-Shirt"
Joes t-shirt clung to him like a second skin, pasted to his body with sweat and the dank Virginia air. Despite his exhaustion, sleep would not come to him. The blades of the fan spun above him but only served to swirl the humid air around, crashing in waves of hot and hotter air upon him. Groaning and stretching, he threw all of the sheets and blankets that were harboring the miserable warmth off the bed and onto the floor, getting down to the cooler mattress below. He panted and his mind swam as he cursed the half-bottle of whiskey he had downed not even an hour prior.
Joe sat up and his brain protested the sudden movement. His mouth was dry and his nerves and lungs craved some nicotine. He hobbled out of bed and down the hall to the balcony, grabbing his worn pack of cigarettes and favorite lighter along the way. Once outside he jostled the pack and out tumbled his last two; one found itself perched on the edge of his lips, the other tucked behind his ear for now. The metal clink of the Zippo was followed shortly by a flick of the flint wheel and the hiss of inhalation. The tip of the cigarette was cherry red, a beacon in the dark night as he leaned against the railing. He held the smoke in his lungs until they began to ache and let it out slowly through his mouth. He stared off into the dimness punctuated by man-made light and his thoughts began to wander. The cigarette in his hand continued its slow burn, no longer quickened by his puffing. Taking one more long drag he snuffed out the little life in his hand and pocketed the butt.
The second cigarette received more of his focus and attention. Long, slow inhalations filled his lungs with the acrid smoke that it craved. Joes thoughts wandered to the empty plastic-wrapped pack lying on the patio table. His mind told him that he should make the short trek to the convenience store down the street, his mind knowing if he didnt, he was going to be even more irritable in the morning. Joe had resolved himself that for his own well-being and the welfare of those around him, hed better get dressed and take care of his errand. Smashing the butt-end of his cigarette on the railing, he placed them both into the empty pack and crushed it.
Once inside Joe began rummaging around for a shirt to throw on to abide by the stores No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service policy. Spotting one on the floor he picked it up and sniffed it cautiously, hoping it wasnt the one he had worn to work the day prior. As he inhaled, his breath caught in his throat and the uncontrolled tears began to spring forth in his eyes. He blinked them back, angry at himself for allowing such a lapse in decorum. His movements betraying his own head, Joe balled up the shirt and pressed it to his face, drawing in the scent once again. Cherry blossoms, sweet and alluring assaulted his senses, followed shortly after by the faint scent of rose petals.
His consciousness was swept up instantly. He could picture every inch of her as if she were standing right in front of him. The curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the pout of her lips, her red hair framing her round face; all of which was sketched out by his minds eye, reminding him of what he was missing. As if the images werent enough, suddenly Joe could hear her voice resonating in his ears. Her sweet caring words mixed with her angry cries in the cacophony in his head. His emotions rising up made him swoon and he ripped the shirt away from his face, hurling it to the floor by his feet. He glared at the simple, unassuming cotton t-shirt, loving and hating it all at once.
He was angry at her. They had fought. Joe was a mildly compulsive man who liked everything the way it was and disliked the displacement he felt in the relationship. It began with the little things that irked him; the little ways she had crept into his life and messed up the well-planned harmony of it all. He was unaccustomed to living with another person and the shock of it all became too much for him to bear. One night, in frenzy, he had accused her of trying to change him. He felt smothered. He had shouted, he had thrown things and she had packed her few possessions she had stashed in the apartment and left.
The war raging in his head gave him a bitter taste in his mouth. Making his way to the kitchen, he removed a heavy glass from the shelf and placed it on the counter. A handful of ice was removed from the freezer, grabbing his half-drunk bottle of whiskey from atop the fridge along the way. Clink clink clink went the ice into the glass, accompanied shortly after by a crack as the lukewarm whiskey collided with the frigid ice. It reminded Joe of himself; how the warmth of an outsider cracked his icy heart. The ice, like himself, would try to grow stronger, try to steel itself against the onslaught and fail. It would melt as he had for her.
Ah, but what if I remove the warm trespasser? he asked himself as he stared at his drink. At once he picked up the glass, brought it to his lips and drank. He held the first gulp in his mouth momentarily, the strong flavor over-powering the bitter taste of loathing. Swallowing, he felt the burn down his throat even though the liquor was icy cold. The rest of the small glass was imbibed without further contemplation or reverence. Bringing the highball to his lips again, he drank the rest of the offending liquid, sparing the ice from its quick destruction. Slamming the glass to the counter his mind turned inward once again. He had saved it and himself he thought.
He stared at the glass with its cracked ice cubes. The outsides of the little blocks were mostly unchanged; a bit softer around the edges but characteristically the same. The inside however was broken and weak. Upon further examination he noticed the ice melted further. But why? he questioned himself. He had removed the liquor that threatened the very life of the ice, so why was it still in jeopardy? The ice, once stacked and occupying the entire volume of the glass, clattered to the bottom to sit there, like him, in a pool of its own tears.
The whiskey was gone, but the ice was forever changed by it. Seeking to drown himself further, he poured another measure from the bottle. It splashed onto the ice once more and sat there briefly while he willed his hand to pick up the glass so he could drink some more. Then a curious thing happened. He observed a bit more closely the interaction between the ice and the whiskey. Wisps of clear melted ice were mixing with the amber liquid in the glass. An epiphany struck him. The whiskey was not destroying the ice, merely transforming it. The two colors coalesced and together created something new.
The ice mellowed and tamed the liquor and the liquor helped to soften the brittle ice. As he took a sip he could taste each of the flavors distinctly; bitter and harsh with clean and refreshing. None of the flavors were lost, simply transformed and complimented.
The ice never would have lasted, he told himself plainly. It was true. The ice would have slowly sublimated into the air in the freezer only to be lost in the fog that escaped every time he opened the door. Instead, the ice could live on, changed yet still the same.
That's it for now!
Joes t-shirt clung to him like a second skin, pasted to his body with sweat and the dank Virginia air. Despite his exhaustion, sleep would not come to him. The blades of the fan spun above him but only served to swirl the humid air around, crashing in waves of hot and hotter air upon him. Groaning and stretching, he threw all of the sheets and blankets that were harboring the miserable warmth off the bed and onto the floor, getting down to the cooler mattress below. He panted and his mind swam as he cursed the half-bottle of whiskey he had downed not even an hour prior.
Joe sat up and his brain protested the sudden movement. His mouth was dry and his nerves and lungs craved some nicotine. He hobbled out of bed and down the hall to the balcony, grabbing his worn pack of cigarettes and favorite lighter along the way. Once outside he jostled the pack and out tumbled his last two; one found itself perched on the edge of his lips, the other tucked behind his ear for now. The metal clink of the Zippo was followed shortly by a flick of the flint wheel and the hiss of inhalation. The tip of the cigarette was cherry red, a beacon in the dark night as he leaned against the railing. He held the smoke in his lungs until they began to ache and let it out slowly through his mouth. He stared off into the dimness punctuated by man-made light and his thoughts began to wander. The cigarette in his hand continued its slow burn, no longer quickened by his puffing. Taking one more long drag he snuffed out the little life in his hand and pocketed the butt.
The second cigarette received more of his focus and attention. Long, slow inhalations filled his lungs with the acrid smoke that it craved. Joes thoughts wandered to the empty plastic-wrapped pack lying on the patio table. His mind told him that he should make the short trek to the convenience store down the street, his mind knowing if he didnt, he was going to be even more irritable in the morning. Joe had resolved himself that for his own well-being and the welfare of those around him, hed better get dressed and take care of his errand. Smashing the butt-end of his cigarette on the railing, he placed them both into the empty pack and crushed it.
Once inside Joe began rummaging around for a shirt to throw on to abide by the stores No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service policy. Spotting one on the floor he picked it up and sniffed it cautiously, hoping it wasnt the one he had worn to work the day prior. As he inhaled, his breath caught in his throat and the uncontrolled tears began to spring forth in his eyes. He blinked them back, angry at himself for allowing such a lapse in decorum. His movements betraying his own head, Joe balled up the shirt and pressed it to his face, drawing in the scent once again. Cherry blossoms, sweet and alluring assaulted his senses, followed shortly after by the faint scent of rose petals.
His consciousness was swept up instantly. He could picture every inch of her as if she were standing right in front of him. The curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the pout of her lips, her red hair framing her round face; all of which was sketched out by his minds eye, reminding him of what he was missing. As if the images werent enough, suddenly Joe could hear her voice resonating in his ears. Her sweet caring words mixed with her angry cries in the cacophony in his head. His emotions rising up made him swoon and he ripped the shirt away from his face, hurling it to the floor by his feet. He glared at the simple, unassuming cotton t-shirt, loving and hating it all at once.
He was angry at her. They had fought. Joe was a mildly compulsive man who liked everything the way it was and disliked the displacement he felt in the relationship. It began with the little things that irked him; the little ways she had crept into his life and messed up the well-planned harmony of it all. He was unaccustomed to living with another person and the shock of it all became too much for him to bear. One night, in frenzy, he had accused her of trying to change him. He felt smothered. He had shouted, he had thrown things and she had packed her few possessions she had stashed in the apartment and left.
The war raging in his head gave him a bitter taste in his mouth. Making his way to the kitchen, he removed a heavy glass from the shelf and placed it on the counter. A handful of ice was removed from the freezer, grabbing his half-drunk bottle of whiskey from atop the fridge along the way. Clink clink clink went the ice into the glass, accompanied shortly after by a crack as the lukewarm whiskey collided with the frigid ice. It reminded Joe of himself; how the warmth of an outsider cracked his icy heart. The ice, like himself, would try to grow stronger, try to steel itself against the onslaught and fail. It would melt as he had for her.
Ah, but what if I remove the warm trespasser? he asked himself as he stared at his drink. At once he picked up the glass, brought it to his lips and drank. He held the first gulp in his mouth momentarily, the strong flavor over-powering the bitter taste of loathing. Swallowing, he felt the burn down his throat even though the liquor was icy cold. The rest of the small glass was imbibed without further contemplation or reverence. Bringing the highball to his lips again, he drank the rest of the offending liquid, sparing the ice from its quick destruction. Slamming the glass to the counter his mind turned inward once again. He had saved it and himself he thought.
He stared at the glass with its cracked ice cubes. The outsides of the little blocks were mostly unchanged; a bit softer around the edges but characteristically the same. The inside however was broken and weak. Upon further examination he noticed the ice melted further. But why? he questioned himself. He had removed the liquor that threatened the very life of the ice, so why was it still in jeopardy? The ice, once stacked and occupying the entire volume of the glass, clattered to the bottom to sit there, like him, in a pool of its own tears.
The whiskey was gone, but the ice was forever changed by it. Seeking to drown himself further, he poured another measure from the bottle. It splashed onto the ice once more and sat there briefly while he willed his hand to pick up the glass so he could drink some more. Then a curious thing happened. He observed a bit more closely the interaction between the ice and the whiskey. Wisps of clear melted ice were mixing with the amber liquid in the glass. An epiphany struck him. The whiskey was not destroying the ice, merely transforming it. The two colors coalesced and together created something new.
The ice mellowed and tamed the liquor and the liquor helped to soften the brittle ice. As he took a sip he could taste each of the flavors distinctly; bitter and harsh with clean and refreshing. None of the flavors were lost, simply transformed and complimented.
The ice never would have lasted, he told himself plainly. It was true. The ice would have slowly sublimated into the air in the freezer only to be lost in the fog that escaped every time he opened the door. Instead, the ice could live on, changed yet still the same.
That's it for now!