Descriptive Draft Two

We had to write an article for my Language Arts class... a description taken from one of several brainstorms we had to engage in. I chose my worst fear... take what you can from it.

What I will become

Circle. A halo of sounds. Clock ticks, computer buzzes, fridge whirrs. Fridge creaks. Open, close. Open, close. Open, closed. Emphasis on the “d”. Cat scratch, cat pounce, cat piss. Six cats, six bowls, six howling, creeping, hissing cats. Light blinks, light winks, light flickers and dies. Car alarm – WAILS, and calms – embeds, enlightens, elates the noise.

Line. Line of dust, line of rust, line of “I must…” and then Mr. Clean, Mr. Lean, Mr. Clean up your shit and get it right this time. Mr. One last time, Mr. Find me at the table with my head in my arms. With my head in my hands, with the head of the class blinking in bold bright lights on the wall. Papers, letters, numbers dates, lining the kitchen slash office, slash living room, slash every damn room.

Achievements, accomplishments, deeds and dedication - evidence of time well wasted. Of time ill-tasted, of time you can’t face, can’t erase. Anymore.

Square. View of the table – sharp edges, clean lines, dark exterior, mottled under wood –her solid reflection. The square, the edgy bitch, the neurotic, too-tanned, too fat, too lethargic, blotchy one reflected in her symbiotic table. Table of contents: one shell, 6 cats, 3 diet pills, and a bottle of self-tanning lotion. Self – do it yourself, think of only yourself, self is all that matters, mattered. Matters, mattered. Will matter – matter is solid. Solid in form, measurable, weighable, with substance. Self matters, weight is relative.

Pyramid. There is a pile of leaves on the floor beneath the plant – brown and shriveled. Tomorrow they will pay homage to the great garbage god. She will clean-rampage late tonight. Mr. Clean will solace her shortcomings. It is what puts order to her world.