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TITLE (EDIT)
The World Is A Sand Castle |
DESCRIPTION
A man is kicked from his home and diagnosed with AIDS. He hates society and the pedestals people are put upon. This story is about a man bringing people down from the clouds and the fake reality people tend to get sucked in.
[1,470 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Literary Fiction |
AUTHOR
Tom M Fisher |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
hmmmm, yeaaaaa
[March 2006] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (4)
Chapter 1 (Novels) Beginning to a book about a man diagnosed with AIDS and kicked from his home on his 18th birthday. He rooms with one of his friends from high school and fucks with peoples lives on a daily basis. The ... [2,610 words]
The Art Of Becoming Lifeless (Poetry) Hmmmmm, don't know any good descriptor words. [245 words]
The Real Laguna Beach (Short Stories) A man sees what corporations and the effects of commercialism in his manufactured daughter. He's fed up with his wife. After finding his wife having an affair, he gets drunk and realizes what he needs... [3,272 words] [Literary Fiction]
The World As A Whole (Poetry) Just my view on society. The human race is fucked in my opinion. It's just a stream of consciousness poorly organized. I have no stanzas because, well, I'm the new sex and I'm cooler than your face. [466 words] [Literary Fiction]
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The World Is A Sand Castle
Tom M Fisher
Welcome to the world of HIV. Calm, cool, collected. Secretive. Risky.
A baby was born. This baby grew up with no father. He was killed in a chicken fight between a railroad crossing and his car. The tracks prevailed. He was raised well.
He always knew how to match his clothes, what was proper and just. He was first class polite, the kind you see at masquerade balls with slow dancing. He waltzed his way through life into high school. Then he seemed to have stepped to a different beat. He got lost in his own rhythm. Tempo increased and his pants got a little bit tighter. He always was a curious boy. It got the best of him. Guy friends became more and girl friends became shopping pals.
His mother did not see it fit. One morning, he found his belongings in the front lawn.
“What did I do?” the boy says to his mother.
The mother blankly replies, “You turned 18. Get out and never come back.” She turned from inside the screen door and let the grain on the door finish her point.
The tempo grinded to stand still. A rest in the music. Quarter rest, half rest, whole rest. This is intermission. It’s kind of amusing how life goes from everything to nothing. He had a nice house, nice mom, great friends and lived in a wonderful neighborhood. Never turn your back on the ocean because it will knock you down.
The boy found himself downtown Chicago. His pal had a place on Fullerton. A one bedroom overpriced roach motel. The music was picking up speed again. No college, no home, no money, no job. He was useless. He was vulnerable. That night, he was not a virgin.
You see, his pal failed to mention that he had the deadly disease. Two weeks later, this man was stricken with flu. Days turned into weeks. Self reassurance turned into doubt. Doubt led to the doctor.
“It is possible you may have HIV. I can test for it but the results will take up to a week.”
Heartbroken. Lost. Confused. Suicidal. Furious. A tinderbox of emotions waiting to erupt in a man who lost everything. There is no looking up; the light is too far out of sight. The only choice is to look down and know how much more there is to fall and how to land. Headfirst sounds appealing.
How could this happen to me? There was a loop in his head. The same questions repeating over and over. The music was skipping and it kept playing that scratchy split second interval over and over. There was a fuzz in his brain and he couldn’t get past this one moment in his life. This is lack of control at its finest. The utter and complete loss of composure. He was a sandcastle at high tide. Disintegrating slowly. There was a lump in the sand where it once stood proud and tall and as each wave passed over, it grew smaller. It was reduced to its surroundings. It was nothing and unnoticed. This man was sand.
Sunrise. Sunset. Dawn. Dusk. Day. Night. It was a consistent cycle. He watched the slow agonizing east to west movement only to wait for the sun to rise in the east again.
He reached an interlude after 6 days, a realization, an intrinsic guidance within himself. He was set on this Earth to inflict destruction and disappointment on those least deserving and least expecting.
He started small, rubbing dandruff into sandwiches at a sub joint that prefers to go unnamed. He did not know if it was working. He needed something grand. He started getting piercing and tattoos in hopes his blood would find its way into the most innocent immune system and take it for all it was worth. He was begging for system failure. Just a cold because it would kill him faster than he would. He was still unsure.
The music had an awkward beat, almost unorganized. At the same time, it felt so right.
The man went back to the doctor. The results were inconclusive. He needed more proof. A prick of the finger was all it took. Light bulb. Idea. Vindication.
This outgoing of wrongdoing had reached new altitudes.
He watched from an alley completely cloaked in black. He was nothing. Like a hawk over prey, he was waiting, watching this parking lot in search of a mouse to swoop down upon. There he was. A man in a nice Hugo Boss 3 piece, with a thousand dollar Movado chrono and a smile that could churn a stomach of steel into a squirm of eels. The perfect candidate. Even better, a wife with equally overpriced fabric. This was going to hit home.
This is the part of the song where the crowd goes crazy. The repetition of a loud catchy chorus that gets stuck in your head.
Chuckling and giggling from an aged wine buzz, the couple makes their way to their sleek black Benz coupe.
“What a wonderful night. It’s times like these I feel good to be alive,” the man proclaims.
He fumbles for his keys and steps towards the door. He slides his fingers across the glossy sheen of the handle and slips them underneath. With a child pitched squeal, he reels back from the car.
“I’m bleeding,” the man squeals, clenching his fingers in his now stained piece of social acceptance.
This was a masterpiece in motion. Upon closer inspection, a crude discovery was made. A couple of crusted infected pins couldn’t have been placed more perfectly. The woman moved around the car.
“There is something on the windshield wiper, honey,” says the woman. “What does it say?”
The man stares blankly into a half sheet of college ruled filler paper. One phrase. Who could think a scribbled saying could bring the world down around someone?
Stuttering, either from inebriation or shock, “Welcome to the world of AID’s.”
That walk home was the brightest he could remember. The streetlights glowed upon him. He felt alive for the first time. Who ever said happiness at other’s expense was wrong?
He became addicted. Pretty soon, he started a journal to d0cument every life he smashed to ruins. He booby trapped everything from sterile diabetic needles to public restrooms. He was on a mission to bring people down to his level. Society is in the clouds and every once in awhile, you need a sick bastard to make it come crashing and burning to where it should be. He wanted the world to experience every emotion he felt and every thought of hopelessness. He wanted people to know there was nothing to live for and he was simply a catalyst to the decaying process.
The song was nearing an outro.
A week passed. It was that time again. He strolled in 15 minutes early to his appointment just to see the looks of devastation on every big-titted blondie that walked out of the exam room. He smiled. This was sweet release. Instant gratification. Emotional orgasm. Even the doctor noticed a glow. The man was careless and was wishing for worse news upon bad. Like it’s almost predictable, the man didn’t hear what he wanted.
“You’re a lucky man,” the doctor exclaimed. “The results came in negative.”
Pause.
“You have your whole life ahead of you.”
The most concentrated acid couldn’t smear the frown of this man’s face. He broke out in sweat, storming out of the clinic. “Negative” rang through his ears. The world he had built himself upon had just been overrun by the best news a normal person could receive. He was not normal at all. He was extraordinary in the worst way.
He went back to the apartment. He had nothing to live for anymore. Once again, proven worthless. He closed the blinds, locked the doors and windows and padded the walls. He blocked every sound, sight and smell from the world. His feelings still remained. He could not live. He simply waited for malnourishment to consume him. Pasty skinned and baggy eyed, he waited. When he felt right, he devoured the most awful, gut wrenching piece of steak that had been thawing on the floor for the better part of 2 weeks. His immune system couldn’t handle it. Complete system meltdown. He had created his own HIV. Self-Destruction. Downward Spiral. Car wreck. This man was a sandcastle in high tide.
This was the ending note to his song. It rang clear and distinct. This was the moment after a wonderful display of musicianship where you gather your thoughts and dig for the deeper meaning in the song. It struck cold and fast.
Welcome to the world of high society and the lack of outside influence. Welcome to the clouds. This man was the anchor to a society pulling away from realistic. Society’s last hope is a sandcastle at high tide. Welcome to the beach of demolished castles and flushed out fortresses. This world is a sandcastle at high tide.
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READER'S REVIEWS (1)
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"Wow.What a thought provoking piece! I love the way it has the song theme running throughout it....amazing!" -- Briony Carvalho.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2006 Tom M Fisher |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
February 2006 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2260
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