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by Yellow
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Dark · #1918518
A man hums a familiar tune that he can't quite place the origin of. [Not Finished Yet]
There was a song in his head that morning. A slow old tune he heard in a dream once. Maybe a dream, maybe some other reality, maybe he forgot, but still he hummed. The tune wouldn’t stop. I fell like butter down into his ears. Or it would have if butter felt good in one’s ears. He sat plumped like some bloated pumpkin. The chair, if it could be called that after seeing the sorry state it was in, barely held his frame, a frame that reflected his life style.
He woke up every morning with the countenance of droopy dog. Or he would have, had droopy dog sent his free time planning suicide. From the nest of tight rigid springs he would march to the corner of his dinky flat and begin frying the cracked eggs. He particularly liked the sound of the shattering egg shell. Probably a metaphor, his now-deceased English teacher would have pointed out. The eggs kept him blissfully bloated through his job. A job is something one must do to survive; by this logic, he had no job for he was hardly living. Of course, logic has no hold over pleasure and sloth, and as such, he would proceed home from the nursing home in his scrubs. The TV was next, as his body knew. From the TV, he would collapse by the time Netflix asked him if he wished to continue watching his show or would he rather send for a life coach. Netflix does not judge.
However, much to his displeasure, today was not like every day, it was a day haunted by a song. Now wherever did this song come from he pondered over the smell of peppered sunny side up. Perhaps it was a tune from his childhood in his parents’ neighborhood, the place where the clouded sun was, and the day was complete when the final snow impacted upon the shortest child in the district.
“No,” he thought out loud to himself. No one from then played piano in that place and this was clearly the machinations of such an instrument. The churches organ? No, it had more of a footstep quality. A xylophone? He supposed it was possible some kid had such a contraption. Still, it didn’t sit right with him. The tune surely must be more recent for he could feel each note as though the noise came from inside his head. And indeed it did.
“The Radio,” he mumbled again to allow his ears to confirm that he was still at work on the puzzle? Perhaps the radio had some song on that caught his ear’s fancy. Flirting with it, Dating it, First base with it, unit it became unhappy at the results, and took his ears up in to the GODDAMN mountains and RAPED it until its short ear life was utterly corrupted.
The old grandfather clocked away behind him.
Minutes passed, the carpool for work came and left, his ‘old war wound’ acted up for the phone, and the day continued with only him and his new audible friend...
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1918518