Just rambling

So I was cleaning up some stuff that had made the move from the apartment to the new house and I found some old binders and notebooks.  Most of my friends know that I am pretty damn obsessive compulsive and rather anal about things.  Since my first semester of college I have kept all of my school work in binders by semester.  Each binder represents a separate semester of college and graduate school.  Each binder is in order of class taken and each folder within the binder is in date order.  I know I know, I’m pretty ridiculous, but I can’t help it.  Aaaaaaanyway, I found some old notebooks and papers that were loose and I was looking through them to try and figure out which binder they belonged in and I found some old creative writing papers.  So I figured I would share some of that stuff with you all.    So here is an entry I made in my creative writing journal for Dr. Sanderson in Spring of 2001:

I felt a chill in my skin as each drop fell and slid down my pale scalp. The artificial air made the rain almost crystallize and glisten on my face and arms, and the cold rush was almost overwhelming. I was conscious of the fact that I smelled like a young boy that was summoned inside by his mother after a long afternoon of playing football in the street. I swept the beads of water from my forehead and flung my fingers violently towards the floor. My toes were losing their grip inside of my shoes, and my untied laces whipped at my ankles vigorously like little wet tongues. The saturated cuffs of my khakis were sticking uncomfortably to the back of my legs, and the monotonous melody of wet rubber against linoleum began to fade as I made my way down the fluorescent corridor.

The smell of wet paint and new particle board curled around inside my nostrils. The hallway was long and boring but was sprinkled with a few of those Home Depot, mass produced water colored flower pictures mounted in fancy gold frames. I always ignored them and focused all of my attention on beating the crown moulding to the end of the hallway; another characteristic of my annoying obsessive compulsive disorder.

The doughnut delivery boy was soliciting his usual selection of stale apple fritters and LDL causing jelly doughnuts. Oddly, I felt like a powdered doughnut might help to calm my nerves, so I stopped and turned on a dime. I noticed the hole above the Pegasus wing on his Led Zeppelin shirt as I called out to him with a sense of urgent dependency. Then I rescued the crisp dollar bill from the grasp of my leather wallet, and the exchange was made. I took comfort in the soft fuzz of sugar filled heaven as I thanked him and made an about face.

As I continued to reluctantly put one foot in front of the other, I indulged in my sweet weakness. I momentarily felt peace as the powder from the doughnut covered my teeth like little sweaters; and then my overpriced gourmet coffee ripped them off and floated them away.

The tension in my chest and my neck began to tighten as I approached the door. The door was sleek and cold and ominously framed by jet black painted steel. The gelid chrome knob numbed my senses and the hinges groaned a taunting laughter as I slowly pulled the door open. The air inside was damp and heavy and there he sat…

Advertisements

2 Responses to “Just rambling”

  1. rynhill Says:

    OHHHH, what happens next??

    • That’s a good question. One, I don’t remember writing half of the stuff in that journal, and two, I am pretty sure that was it and there wasn’t anything else to the story. Maybe I will have to follow up, or else I can just leave everyone in the lurch. We’ll see.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: