Story ideas part two

A HIV-positive boy has made a deal with the Devil (and not with his antipode, for reasons unknown) for one more night alive. He spends it on the boardwalk of a harbor overlooking the ocean, thinking about nothing in particular as his life force slowly melts into moths flying towards the rising sun.

base notes of musk and wood

when the water hits my perfumed neck it sends wispy whiffs of vanilla and vetiver into the evening air.

you could have said something,

but you didn’t. it’s awfully quiet now, but shut up.

Story ideas, part one

In the interests of true equality, the various governments and regimes of the world have engaged in individuality repression. Everyone wears white, impermeable, opaque bodysuits that conceal from head to toe, and voices are filtered through a device that makes everyone speak with the intonation and enunciation of bullfrogs. Identities are eliminated, and no one truly knows his or her name, and has no idea who anyone else is.

A nameless protagonist (or protagonists, for it is never made clear that the character starting a new chapter is the same person who ended the previous one) journeys through a nameless city, and at its center finds an igloo. His contemplations on the igloo, and his experiences as he walks in, redefine his perceptions of the world. In the end, he (or she) is driven to depression and suicide; and since identities have been conflated, the only death he can comprehend is the death of the whole system.

He is discovered, tried, placed into a self-sustaining pod and launched into space, where he spends the rest of his life trying to come to grips with this new isolation.

The presence of the igloo is never fully explained.

what i have is a foul thing and must be thrown away

Surely I’ve seen you before; you’ve been slithering in through my window on moonless nights, pouring seductive despondencies into my ear.

apologies and confessions for about half a dozen or more people

1. I will never admit it, but I was wrong. But I will admit that I will never admit it. But I was wrong.

2. I want to see what’s under that porcelain mask.

3. We’re running out of things to say. When we do, you’ll finally be free of me, and I of you. I think I can’t wait. I think I am sad.

4. On dark days your mind is as brittle and enigmatic as can be. I will never be able to get in. That’s why I like pounding on the door.

5. You and I are like Moby Dick and Captain Ahab. It’s love-hate-obsession-Iwanttospearyouandcutyouup, minus the human/beast homoerotic undertones. I’m not sure which I am. (You’re probably the whale)

6. We’ve finally realized just how mercenary we can be.

7. I’m sorry we can’t understand each other anymore, and I’m sorry that you realize this and still want to try. I’m not sorry that I still want to try.

8. I have nothing personal against you, but I hope you die.

9. Thank you.

busybusy

I am told I should keep my mind occupied, as a way of forgetting and ameliorating. Most of Asia was occupied in the late 1930s, and I don’t think they forgot anything. Although, maybe they forgot just what they were doing before they were occupied, in which case it worked.
Also, this would seem to suggest that most people with occupations have something to forget. Something that necessitates a lifetime of occupative escapism. Life, maybe. Or lousy home cooking.

insomnia

when people ask me why i cannot sleep, i tell them that i am brooding about something. in truth, my heater makes stentorian, strange noises around five in the morning, as if there was some strange blue sprite inside being burned alive. in truth, i wish life could be as simple as trying not to be burned alive. in truth, i am brooding about something.