When It Rains on 1477 La Piña
There's nothing like the feeling the rain brings during those hot summer nights. It wasn't quite night-time yet, but the rain had, as it seemed, smothered the rays emitted by the sun. In fact, the droplets drowned the sun. How hard to believe it was just 4:45 PM. He didn't want to leave his hammock so early. It was actually nice out, even before the rain. The tree holding his weight blocked most of the sun with its branches anyway. The rain was not needed nor wanted. But it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter. As with most humans, a warm shower without clothing is always preferred. The only logical choice was to move. The canopy above would soon give in anyway.
Accompanied by a grunt, he, Clemente Soto, hulled his right leg and threw it beyond the hammock's edge. The limb helplessly swung in the rain. Another grunt. Lift, then a 90° twist and he was sitting upright, both legs hanging. His bare back and arms facing the neighbor on his left, were painted with small red squares. The hammock's threads had dug into his skin. A third grunt. Followed by the thrust that slid the hammock from underneath his buttocks and planted his naked feet into the watered soil. The feeling was actually satisfying. It brought back memories of camping exhibitions -in the acres of rain forests still available- with his Father and older Brother. Both who now lived in another dimension. It never failed to rain during those trips. But the scent produced was well worth it. So what if the tent failed to keep heaven's tears out of our sleeping bags. It smelled good. It felt even better.
With this thought in mind, Clemente sailed across his front yard and unto the concrete carport in search for cover. He hadn't realized he had even lifted a heal. But now he stood under the carport. Wall on the left, car on the right, kitchen side door ahead, also on the left. The grin that had resurfaced upon recalling his camping days slowly turned into a frown. It was no longer the unwanted rain that dragged him off the sweet-spot in the hammock that disturbed him. It was those ugly creatures from hell that blocked his path to the kitchen side door. "¡Arg, las mascotas del Diablo!1" he murmured. Under dim light, they resembled soggy grass clippings. They were scattered throughout the carport. One found its way into a groove in the left-rear tire. Three facts supported the theory that the dark curls on the concrete were not grass clippings:
He wasn't about to place his bare feet on those creatures. A grunt. He walked around the right perimeter of his parked car, feet trampled on the soaked grass, in search for his trusty old broom. There it was. Exactly where he had left it, in front of the right headlight, leaning against the wall of the washer-dryer room. On the trip back, he dipped the brush end of the broom into the lawn, soaking it. A technique he learned that discouraged the worms from sticking to the broom. As he inched toward the side door, he swiped the creatures under the car as fast as he could. Knowing if he took too long they would be on his feet before he could make it inside. He left the broom along the right side of the door frame, parallel to it by the way, and then walked in.
It was peaceful now. The closed door acted as nature's volume knob. The chants produced by the rain seemed to cease. The complaints resonating from the leaves, the grass, the concrete, the wooden roof, the windows, all now melted together. Just like radio white noise. Just as soothing. Besides forcing him in early, the rain had not changed much else. The daily plan remained much the same. Take a shower, cook dinner, watch a sitcom or two (the nightly news ignored as always), and go to bed. He had come to believe that keeping to himself was the best way to live life. A diploma could not be found in his residence, but life had taught him well.
His feet were wet, but not enough for him to loose ground. The old wooden floor complained of his weight, reminding him it needed replacing, badly. With destination in mind, he walked through the kitchen, then down to the end of the short hall to his right, and into the bathroom on the left. Hot and cold taps existed, but only cold water passed. He picked a tap, any old one, and got it running, failing to notice the pool of water already in the tub. There was no real reason for this. The temperature would never change. And he wasn't about to have a bubble bath. But it did help with the next task. Urination.
The seat was already up, like always. No need for it to ever be down. He prepared, aimed, and then looked elsewhere. To his left, out the window, and into the rain. How much cooler it was out. But he was not invited. Unconsciously, he relaxed his lower muscles and began to release a tense day. But a strange feeling, down there, alerted him. As if he had withdrawn this privilege to his bladder too long. Way too long. He looked down to observe, expecting the recoil to cause a mess he wasn't in the mood to clean. Unfortunately he was right about the mess. But then spotted something not expected. Slowly sinking to the bottom of the bowl, suspended for the moment, was a worm. Unlike the visitors waiting on the carport, this one was much slimmer and slightly shorter. The yellow body was segmented by red rings. The legs too small to see, if it even had any. When it finally reached the bottom of the pit, it immediately curled up. "Nah, no puede ser2". Having to painfully stop the stream to observe, he thought. Toma esto. ¡Es muy rico!3 A grin formed on his face, and with a sense of pride, he provided his unwanted visitor with a nice warm beer.
Plans changed. But only slightly. The shower would be saved for the end, right before bed. It often helped him sleep and was becoming a common practice. A bath that is, instead of a shower. It was now time to make a meal. His feet weren't wet any longer, so it felt much warmer. Though the temperature inside had not changed. It was just plain hot. On the way to the kitchen, the worm incident was on its merry way to the bottomless pit in the mind. The black-hole that sucked in thoughts that weren't given enough attention. The black-hole came without an off switch, so any important thoughts not given the appropriate immediate attention would be lost forever.
The kitchen was modest. A thin eight-foot hall. Plenty for one man. Not in much of a cooking mood, -which happened often- standing in front of the stove, he pulled out a can of Chef Boyardee® from the cabinet on the upper right. It was the same cabinet door that never closed. It was mounted crooked so the door would hang open. If it were not for masking tape, that is. He never promised himself to fix it, therefore he hasn't. Ravioli with meat and cheese. That's what he dumped into a small cooking pan. At first he was frightened, for as he dumped the canned meal into the pan, he saw two worms. Both holding on to the same piece of pasta as it surfed down the waterfall of sauce and into the pan. Startled, he jumped and backed into the sink behind him. Almost loosing the can, he had bent his arms at the elbow, fingers pointing up, as if being taken under arrest. What he did loose was the leftover sauce. It sprinkled on the stove, cabinets, refrigerator, hell, on everything! An additional mess to clean, later. Following a much longer grunt, he peeked into the can in search for more creatures. There were none. He then slammed the can into the garbage can, and withdrew a large plastic spoon from the cabinet who's handle had validated his left butt cheek. Furiously, he searched for worms in his unheated meal. Lift, look, dump. Cycling through every square inch. None were found. Pues, mas carne para mi4, He thought.
He had to admit, he was worried. Maybe the worms were actually there. He ate it regardless, and figured that even if this was true, it wasn't going to hurt him any. He swallowed dust daily at work. A job he's had since he turned fifteen. But he couldn't help but feel two long, things, travel down towards the stomach. He never felt a crunching sensation, or felt anything crawling on the tongue. Those hairy legs would never have been able to bypass anyone's tongue. Such a sensitive piece of machinery. If so, he would have spit hard enough to kill someone. But, as sure as he knew he had a dick, he knew he felt those two... things!
The T.V. sitcoms could wait for another day. He was too irritated to sit comfortably. Worried about those two worms that may have sneaked into his digestive system, spoiling his meal. They would never make it out alive. The stomach acid would burn them for good. That's what he assumed anyway. As he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen he though about a fib he was told when he was young. Too young to know any better. If you eat the seeds, apples, oranges, grapes, it didn't matter. They would grow in your stomach. As stupid as that may sound, the tree-in-the-stomach tale kept Clemente from choking in the early years.
The creatures refused to retaliate. It was a battle. Clemente vs. The Worms of the Carport. A light-red one on the dining table. Two on the stove, one which was stupid enough to crawl onto the hot coils he had used. It hissed and sizzled to death, leaving a partially-burned arc. Part of it still hung in the air uncooked. The other, a short, fat, black one, crawling over the temperature knob. The one for the same coil! Frustrated, he turned around to pick a napkin from the holder that stood on the kitchen counter. Although in a hurry to remove the knob-hugging worm, he carefully slid the very first napkin out of the holder. He didn't want all of them. Like a book, he separated the flaps to reveal the inside, and there it was. An orange worm. The kind with about a dozen legs in the front, none in the middle, and a dozen more in the back. It was completely orange, no segmenting rings, and the middle rose and fell as it moved. The side that appeared to be the front had what looked like claws for a mouth. He immediately released the napkin and it floated down towards the counter taking the creature on a smooth undeserved ride. A moving object in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned slightly and noticed another worm. This one was quickly emerging from the sink. It raced along the counter's edge and headed downwards toward the cabinet door beneath the sink. Quickly, he scanned the kitchen for more worms. Searching left, then right, then left again. It seemed he spotted one every time his head stopped moving long enough for his eyes to focus. On the counters, microwave, and the dishes resting on the plastic drying rack! Multiplying in numbers by the second. Enough was enough. He pointed at the one resting on his favorite plate, which was dry by then, and warned them all, "¡Los voy a matar! ¡A todos!5"
He stormed out of the kitchen and into the utility closet where he located a can of Raid®. It was designed for roaches, but that was no matter. He rushed back to the kitchen but paused at the entrance. ¿Donde empieso?6 he thought, although he certainly knew the answer. Pacing back and forth, he coated the entire kitchen with the poison. Even inside the cabinets, but skipping the insides of the refrigerator, oven, and microwave. The worms didn't freak out and flip over on their backs like roaches do. Instead, they just slowed down to a stop. And so did Clemente as he reached exhaustion. Everything would have to be cleaned eventually. But that was a job for tomorrow. A cold bath was in store.
Everything of cloth went into the hamper. Any worms in there? That wasn't of importance. Neither was the door, or his night clothes. Why hide behind something when there's no one to hide from? He was accustomed to pacing in underwear, or as usual, naked, after a shower. Anything that touched the skin would swell with sweat in no time under such heat. The refreshing cold water called him in. It wanted the chance to wash away the day, joining it with the days of his neighbors and taking them all on a ride. Anywhere would be fine, just as long as it was far.
Lately, Clemente had been falling asleep during his bath. After a near-death experience the first time it happened, he settled for much less of a water level. He would lay inside, knees up, and let the water rise till his ear lobes were partially dipped. His chest and legs surfaced, but enough of him was submerged, cooling him instantly. There were two advantages to taking a bath instead of a shower:
I.He could remain cool much longer.
II.Additional dirt would be lifted from his skin.
Once, he took a shower prior to a bath, and later noticed the deposits of dirt on the bottom or his water bed. So he figured a bath was always better, and felt dirty otherwise.
As the water soothed him, his mind still pondered regarding the visitors. ¿Como entráron? ¿Y porque tantos?7 He was above and beyond neat, but a mere two-star in cleanness. But in the years he had walked the same halls, he'd never been terrorized by the creepy crawlers. They simply paraded the carport when the grass soaked. And that was all there was to it. ¿Y porque despues de tantos años?8 It made absolutely no logical sense. And logical was Clemente. He didn't get the time to formulate the perfect solution before falling asleep. No time to turn off the tap either.
He awakened a new man. Not a clean one. Or even an enlightened one -he still had no real plan- but a paranoid one. It wasn't water-in-the-nose that killed the peaceful scenery playing inside. But rather a clot in the nose. Like a chunk of hard snot ready to exit the womb. He slit open his eating organ, not enough to bare teeth, and inhaled. He puffed at it. Two nice ones were enough. And it rushed out at terminal velocity! Long, yellow with red stripes, and hairy tickling legs. It emerged from the right nostril, tickled over the outer lip, and then headed towards the inner lip. Shocked, his mouth hanged open, but he was not stupid. He clamped the thing between his lips, biting his tongue in the same motion. The creature tried to grab hold of the upper gum to pull itself in. But Clemente put up a fight. He grabbed its body, which was mostly outside, with the end still in the nostril, and carefully slid it out. Once pinched between his finger tips, he dumped it into the toilet bowl. Very similar in fashion to the way basketball players score layups. He knew then, it was far from over.
He had to look out the window and see if it was true. And it was. A two-foot stone in front of his favorite tree in the backyard. ... descansa9 ... Clemen... 198... A string of thoughts zipped through his mind. They had to be sorted to make any sense of it. He remembered the nose-worm during the bath. The worms in the kitchen. Now a bed? How did he make it to the bed? He ran like hell! That's how.
A cut in his thigh. Carved by a pocket knife. A blood-red worm, very skinny, hurried out, grabbing hold of the knife. Flicked onto the wall forming a red stream. Blood dripped down, and the worm followed it.
An over-flowing bathtub with a man floating inside. The weight of his gut had tipped him butt-up. Gringo-like skin. And a violet worm sailing on his back, tanning under an incandescent bulb.
Running and twirling within the perimeter of his home. Like a madman. Worms crawling out of every corner of him. The ears, the anus, tangling in the arm pits. His body temperature quickly rising. Fever like. An incredible weakness came over him. Worms continuously rushed out. Mostly from the anus.
Enclosed in a dark box. It was moving. And so were the worms. Out the corners of the eye, the anus, the mouth. A creative one existed through the belly button. Several broke through the thin carry-on that used to hold testicles. His... thingy wasn't much of anything. Light in weight. Not much of any substance left.
In the T.V. under the eye lids, a creature swam. All kinds of somersaults. A heart-warming display, for a worm. It was all white, and only the shadow was visible. It grew, and then crawled out and onto the outer surface of the eye. Mr. Eye-worm was out of sight. And then, the static came on.
Footnotes:
Accompanied by a grunt, he, Clemente Soto, hulled his right leg and threw it beyond the hammock's edge. The limb helplessly swung in the rain. Another grunt. Lift, then a 90° twist and he was sitting upright, both legs hanging. His bare back and arms facing the neighbor on his left, were painted with small red squares. The hammock's threads had dug into his skin. A third grunt. Followed by the thrust that slid the hammock from underneath his buttocks and planted his naked feet into the watered soil. The feeling was actually satisfying. It brought back memories of camping exhibitions -in the acres of rain forests still available- with his Father and older Brother. Both who now lived in another dimension. It never failed to rain during those trips. But the scent produced was well worth it. So what if the tent failed to keep heaven's tears out of our sleeping bags. It smelled good. It felt even better.
With this thought in mind, Clemente sailed across his front yard and unto the concrete carport in search for cover. He hadn't realized he had even lifted a heal. But now he stood under the carport. Wall on the left, car on the right, kitchen side door ahead, also on the left. The grin that had resurfaced upon recalling his camping days slowly turned into a frown. It was no longer the unwanted rain that dragged him off the sweet-spot in the hammock that disturbed him. It was those ugly creatures from hell that blocked his path to the kitchen side door. "¡Arg, las mascotas del Diablo!1" he murmured. Under dim light, they resembled soggy grass clippings. They were scattered throughout the carport. One found its way into a groove in the left-rear tire. Three facts supported the theory that the dark curls on the concrete were not grass clippings:
I.It had been at least three weeks since he last mowed the lawn.
II.The curls were moving.
III.Worms always evacuated onto the concrete carport floor when water flooded their so-called territory.
Although it was dark out and the shadows were more visible than the worms themselves, Clemente knew exactly how they looked. Their bodies were blood-red, shiny, and averaged at about three inches in length. Darker-red rings segmented their armor-like skin into about two dozen lumps. Both ends appeared to be the same. As if the thing could walk in either direction. But upon closer inspection, one can see two pin-head-sized dots horizontally aligned. Were those really eyes? And then there were the little legs. Like the hair on his scalp, uncountable black tiny things. They tickled the most sensitive parts of the body. Ugly, but Harmless.II.The curls were moving.
III.Worms always evacuated onto the concrete carport floor when water flooded their so-called territory.
He wasn't about to place his bare feet on those creatures. A grunt. He walked around the right perimeter of his parked car, feet trampled on the soaked grass, in search for his trusty old broom. There it was. Exactly where he had left it, in front of the right headlight, leaning against the wall of the washer-dryer room. On the trip back, he dipped the brush end of the broom into the lawn, soaking it. A technique he learned that discouraged the worms from sticking to the broom. As he inched toward the side door, he swiped the creatures under the car as fast as he could. Knowing if he took too long they would be on his feet before he could make it inside. He left the broom along the right side of the door frame, parallel to it by the way, and then walked in.
It was peaceful now. The closed door acted as nature's volume knob. The chants produced by the rain seemed to cease. The complaints resonating from the leaves, the grass, the concrete, the wooden roof, the windows, all now melted together. Just like radio white noise. Just as soothing. Besides forcing him in early, the rain had not changed much else. The daily plan remained much the same. Take a shower, cook dinner, watch a sitcom or two (the nightly news ignored as always), and go to bed. He had come to believe that keeping to himself was the best way to live life. A diploma could not be found in his residence, but life had taught him well.
His feet were wet, but not enough for him to loose ground. The old wooden floor complained of his weight, reminding him it needed replacing, badly. With destination in mind, he walked through the kitchen, then down to the end of the short hall to his right, and into the bathroom on the left. Hot and cold taps existed, but only cold water passed. He picked a tap, any old one, and got it running, failing to notice the pool of water already in the tub. There was no real reason for this. The temperature would never change. And he wasn't about to have a bubble bath. But it did help with the next task. Urination.
The seat was already up, like always. No need for it to ever be down. He prepared, aimed, and then looked elsewhere. To his left, out the window, and into the rain. How much cooler it was out. But he was not invited. Unconsciously, he relaxed his lower muscles and began to release a tense day. But a strange feeling, down there, alerted him. As if he had withdrawn this privilege to his bladder too long. Way too long. He looked down to observe, expecting the recoil to cause a mess he wasn't in the mood to clean. Unfortunately he was right about the mess. But then spotted something not expected. Slowly sinking to the bottom of the bowl, suspended for the moment, was a worm. Unlike the visitors waiting on the carport, this one was much slimmer and slightly shorter. The yellow body was segmented by red rings. The legs too small to see, if it even had any. When it finally reached the bottom of the pit, it immediately curled up. "Nah, no puede ser2". Having to painfully stop the stream to observe, he thought. Toma esto. ¡Es muy rico!3 A grin formed on his face, and with a sense of pride, he provided his unwanted visitor with a nice warm beer.
Plans changed. But only slightly. The shower would be saved for the end, right before bed. It often helped him sleep and was becoming a common practice. A bath that is, instead of a shower. It was now time to make a meal. His feet weren't wet any longer, so it felt much warmer. Though the temperature inside had not changed. It was just plain hot. On the way to the kitchen, the worm incident was on its merry way to the bottomless pit in the mind. The black-hole that sucked in thoughts that weren't given enough attention. The black-hole came without an off switch, so any important thoughts not given the appropriate immediate attention would be lost forever.
The kitchen was modest. A thin eight-foot hall. Plenty for one man. Not in much of a cooking mood, -which happened often- standing in front of the stove, he pulled out a can of Chef Boyardee® from the cabinet on the upper right. It was the same cabinet door that never closed. It was mounted crooked so the door would hang open. If it were not for masking tape, that is. He never promised himself to fix it, therefore he hasn't. Ravioli with meat and cheese. That's what he dumped into a small cooking pan. At first he was frightened, for as he dumped the canned meal into the pan, he saw two worms. Both holding on to the same piece of pasta as it surfed down the waterfall of sauce and into the pan. Startled, he jumped and backed into the sink behind him. Almost loosing the can, he had bent his arms at the elbow, fingers pointing up, as if being taken under arrest. What he did loose was the leftover sauce. It sprinkled on the stove, cabinets, refrigerator, hell, on everything! An additional mess to clean, later. Following a much longer grunt, he peeked into the can in search for more creatures. There were none. He then slammed the can into the garbage can, and withdrew a large plastic spoon from the cabinet who's handle had validated his left butt cheek. Furiously, he searched for worms in his unheated meal. Lift, look, dump. Cycling through every square inch. None were found. Pues, mas carne para mi4, He thought.
He had to admit, he was worried. Maybe the worms were actually there. He ate it regardless, and figured that even if this was true, it wasn't going to hurt him any. He swallowed dust daily at work. A job he's had since he turned fifteen. But he couldn't help but feel two long, things, travel down towards the stomach. He never felt a crunching sensation, or felt anything crawling on the tongue. Those hairy legs would never have been able to bypass anyone's tongue. Such a sensitive piece of machinery. If so, he would have spit hard enough to kill someone. But, as sure as he knew he had a dick, he knew he felt those two... things!
The T.V. sitcoms could wait for another day. He was too irritated to sit comfortably. Worried about those two worms that may have sneaked into his digestive system, spoiling his meal. They would never make it out alive. The stomach acid would burn them for good. That's what he assumed anyway. As he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen he though about a fib he was told when he was young. Too young to know any better. If you eat the seeds, apples, oranges, grapes, it didn't matter. They would grow in your stomach. As stupid as that may sound, the tree-in-the-stomach tale kept Clemente from choking in the early years.
The creatures refused to retaliate. It was a battle. Clemente vs. The Worms of the Carport. A light-red one on the dining table. Two on the stove, one which was stupid enough to crawl onto the hot coils he had used. It hissed and sizzled to death, leaving a partially-burned arc. Part of it still hung in the air uncooked. The other, a short, fat, black one, crawling over the temperature knob. The one for the same coil! Frustrated, he turned around to pick a napkin from the holder that stood on the kitchen counter. Although in a hurry to remove the knob-hugging worm, he carefully slid the very first napkin out of the holder. He didn't want all of them. Like a book, he separated the flaps to reveal the inside, and there it was. An orange worm. The kind with about a dozen legs in the front, none in the middle, and a dozen more in the back. It was completely orange, no segmenting rings, and the middle rose and fell as it moved. The side that appeared to be the front had what looked like claws for a mouth. He immediately released the napkin and it floated down towards the counter taking the creature on a smooth undeserved ride. A moving object in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned slightly and noticed another worm. This one was quickly emerging from the sink. It raced along the counter's edge and headed downwards toward the cabinet door beneath the sink. Quickly, he scanned the kitchen for more worms. Searching left, then right, then left again. It seemed he spotted one every time his head stopped moving long enough for his eyes to focus. On the counters, microwave, and the dishes resting on the plastic drying rack! Multiplying in numbers by the second. Enough was enough. He pointed at the one resting on his favorite plate, which was dry by then, and warned them all, "¡Los voy a matar! ¡A todos!5"
He stormed out of the kitchen and into the utility closet where he located a can of Raid®. It was designed for roaches, but that was no matter. He rushed back to the kitchen but paused at the entrance. ¿Donde empieso?6 he thought, although he certainly knew the answer. Pacing back and forth, he coated the entire kitchen with the poison. Even inside the cabinets, but skipping the insides of the refrigerator, oven, and microwave. The worms didn't freak out and flip over on their backs like roaches do. Instead, they just slowed down to a stop. And so did Clemente as he reached exhaustion. Everything would have to be cleaned eventually. But that was a job for tomorrow. A cold bath was in store.
Everything of cloth went into the hamper. Any worms in there? That wasn't of importance. Neither was the door, or his night clothes. Why hide behind something when there's no one to hide from? He was accustomed to pacing in underwear, or as usual, naked, after a shower. Anything that touched the skin would swell with sweat in no time under such heat. The refreshing cold water called him in. It wanted the chance to wash away the day, joining it with the days of his neighbors and taking them all on a ride. Anywhere would be fine, just as long as it was far.
Lately, Clemente had been falling asleep during his bath. After a near-death experience the first time it happened, he settled for much less of a water level. He would lay inside, knees up, and let the water rise till his ear lobes were partially dipped. His chest and legs surfaced, but enough of him was submerged, cooling him instantly. There were two advantages to taking a bath instead of a shower:
I.He could remain cool much longer.
II.Additional dirt would be lifted from his skin.
Once, he took a shower prior to a bath, and later noticed the deposits of dirt on the bottom or his water bed. So he figured a bath was always better, and felt dirty otherwise.
As the water soothed him, his mind still pondered regarding the visitors. ¿Como entráron? ¿Y porque tantos?7 He was above and beyond neat, but a mere two-star in cleanness. But in the years he had walked the same halls, he'd never been terrorized by the creepy crawlers. They simply paraded the carport when the grass soaked. And that was all there was to it. ¿Y porque despues de tantos años?8 It made absolutely no logical sense. And logical was Clemente. He didn't get the time to formulate the perfect solution before falling asleep. No time to turn off the tap either.
He awakened a new man. Not a clean one. Or even an enlightened one -he still had no real plan- but a paranoid one. It wasn't water-in-the-nose that killed the peaceful scenery playing inside. But rather a clot in the nose. Like a chunk of hard snot ready to exit the womb. He slit open his eating organ, not enough to bare teeth, and inhaled. He puffed at it. Two nice ones were enough. And it rushed out at terminal velocity! Long, yellow with red stripes, and hairy tickling legs. It emerged from the right nostril, tickled over the outer lip, and then headed towards the inner lip. Shocked, his mouth hanged open, but he was not stupid. He clamped the thing between his lips, biting his tongue in the same motion. The creature tried to grab hold of the upper gum to pull itself in. But Clemente put up a fight. He grabbed its body, which was mostly outside, with the end still in the nostril, and carefully slid it out. Once pinched between his finger tips, he dumped it into the toilet bowl. Very similar in fashion to the way basketball players score layups. He knew then, it was far from over.
He had to look out the window and see if it was true. And it was. A two-foot stone in front of his favorite tree in the backyard. ... descansa9 ... Clemen... 198... A string of thoughts zipped through his mind. They had to be sorted to make any sense of it. He remembered the nose-worm during the bath. The worms in the kitchen. Now a bed? How did he make it to the bed? He ran like hell! That's how.
A cut in his thigh. Carved by a pocket knife. A blood-red worm, very skinny, hurried out, grabbing hold of the knife. Flicked onto the wall forming a red stream. Blood dripped down, and the worm followed it.
An over-flowing bathtub with a man floating inside. The weight of his gut had tipped him butt-up. Gringo-like skin. And a violet worm sailing on his back, tanning under an incandescent bulb.
Running and twirling within the perimeter of his home. Like a madman. Worms crawling out of every corner of him. The ears, the anus, tangling in the arm pits. His body temperature quickly rising. Fever like. An incredible weakness came over him. Worms continuously rushed out. Mostly from the anus.
Enclosed in a dark box. It was moving. And so were the worms. Out the corners of the eye, the anus, the mouth. A creative one existed through the belly button. Several broke through the thin carry-on that used to hold testicles. His... thingy wasn't much of anything. Light in weight. Not much of any substance left.
In the T.V. under the eye lids, a creature swam. All kinds of somersaults. A heart-warming display, for a worm. It was all white, and only the shadow was visible. It grew, and then crawled out and onto the outer surface of the eye. Mr. Eye-worm was out of sight. And then, the static came on.
Footnotes:
- Arg, the Devil's pets.
- It can't be.
- Drink this. It's quite delicious.
- Well, more meat for me.
- I'm going to kill you! All of you!
- Where should I start?
- How did they get in? And why so many?
- And why after all these years?
- rests.
This is one of those stories that started out one way, and sort of, mutated by the time it reached the end. Now that I think of it, what story doesn't do that. Originally, the main character Clemente was going to be placed in such discomfort that he would go insane and commit suicide. All because if his fear of crawlers, specifically worms. My goal was to creep myself out, being that like Clemente, I dislike worms. But I didn't write it well enough to do so. So instead of him running out into the street naked, and them running back in the burning house to off himself. I opted to a technique similar to Stephen King's That Feeling You Can Only Say What It Is In French. You can find this story in the book Everything's Eventual. You can find it at Amazon.com . Oh, if you're wondering why the main character speaks spanish, it's because the story is set in Puerto Rico. I figured tropical islands and rain go together like mud and your sister's face. I also thought it would just be cool.
posted by eR | 8:42 PM
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