Author, Jason Graves

– from Odds and Enders

The world is never black and white, more so grayscales, blending edges, and blurring lines. The world is simple, straightforward, but when everything gets so monochromatic, one can find oneself losing perspective in all the simplicity.

Mornings are for contemplation but not those in the deep thoughts category. No, the morning is for contemplating regrets, life choices from the night before, and why something or another hurts.

Dylan Rafferty lay where he had fallen, on his back. His arms and legs spread across the bed nearly touching all four corners simultaneously as he stared blankly up at a slowly spinning ceiling fan. Each blink a struggle for survival.

The rotating blades churned warm air; thickened by humidity, into a clammy chowder making the room was a soupy sauna.

Dew drops of sweat collected on his skin. Bits of his loose fitting tee shirt stuck to his parts of his damp flesh as he lay motionless. Seemingly. Nothing is ever truly motionless.

Somewhere a fly buzzed.

Dylan’s thoughts spun in synchronicity with the fan, the room, and the world.

There are bills to be paid, money to be made. I need to get going, get moving, not just my mind, but my body.

Rise up!

Sliding the fingers of his left hand through his unwashed mass of hair Dylan slicked a veil of bangs back over the crown of his skull. With that same hand he reached for the revolver resting on the bed beside his left shoulder. Feeling for the contradiction among the soft bed his fingers found and took hold of the pistol’s blued barrel in his left hand.

Massaging the oil from his hair into the metal, he slid his fingers along the grooves until he had maneuvered the weapon to fit perfectly into his grip like weathered stone; smooth, polished, and contoured from use. It resembled obsidian.

Turning his wrist, his eyes drifted along the metal to the stick, his gaze stroked the engraved spider like a mental thumb.

He allowed his extended arm to relax, when he did the weight of the handgun dropped onto his forehead, still in his grasp, metal on skin. Nothing.

Sure, it hurt. Sort of.

A tiny trickle of blood from a fresh crack in his flesh meandered along his forehead toward his right temple, the path of least resistance through a topography of scars and scabs, ending as a tiny droplet of humanity among a cacophony of unidentifiable stains.

His exhale came slowly. He needed to get up.

Dylan rolled to his right. Taking advantage of the mattresses springiness, he popped to his feet effortlessly with a quick push-burst from his arms. In that motion he left the revolver on the bed by opening his fingers as he pushed up. The pistol bounced a bit, then settled. If anything truly settles.

Three strides took him across the bed/ living/dining room to the kitchen sink where he could splash water on his face and observe goings on outside the hovel he called home-ish. He had a bathroom, technically a water closet the size of a wardrobe closet. It wasn’t the size of sink or bathroom he avoided. It was the mirror. More specifically, the thing in it.

His kitchen was comprised of a single grey countertop, a white enamel sink, and a coffee machine. The sink was empty, a three day old brew remained in the carafe.

Beside the counter and sink, a small table with a single chair, on the table a lone mug of unfinished caffeine, thick and black.

His studio, a drab collection of dust and not much else.

He liked the lack of color and clutter. It gave his place a sense of quiet. The only splashes of color occasionally intruded through the window on a rare chance Dylan hadn’t drawn the blackout shade. The outside world is filled with color and with that, chaos. He wasn’t a fan of either, chaos at least paid well. Usually.

As an oddjob man, the more chaotic the machine the more costly the grease.

Standing at the sink, Dylan reached for the cold water with his right hand, twisting the bone-white handle, its silver rounded tip broken revealing a rusted inner screw-phillips head-until liquid came out in a steady stream. It wasn’t really water or cold.

He splashed the yellowish tepid fluid that belched from the spigot, on to his face and through his hair. Slowly forming a urinesque stream of something that smells and tastes akin to its appearance, Dylan filled praying hands with rust and bacteria, sipped from the natural cup, swished something putrid around his mouth, and spat out orange. Damn. As he reached for his rinse he made a mental note to call the dentist.

Taking the bottle in his right hand, twisting the cap off with his left, he brought the bottle to his lips and poured.

He held his mouth tight, lips closed and braced against the vodka’s sting. His tongue burned, his gums — ablaze, and when he swallowed it in a gulp, it hurt.

Gettin’ old. The whole damn world had gotten old. The beauty of life truly lies in the fragility. Since the advent of age inhibitors he felt the value of life has been lost.

Especially with those on the High-End.

Pays the bills but damn them Enders are sick.

—note from the author

This is an excerpt from a concept I’m working on, an experiment in creative writing. I hope it is received well.

Feedback is welcome!