Linc Madison
Seven Days Make a Week
Monday morning, get on a stallion, ride it to the coast near Manderley, seven miles from the city. Once there, sit in lotus position by the shoreline. Sounds of soothing ocean waves caress you, front-to-back, head-to-toe, outside-in, inside-out, in natural Sensurround, diminishing stress by half. Twenty minutes later, you feel refreshed. Reverse course and salvage a lost object of obvious sentimental value that someone unbeknownst left behind. Perhaps someone’s lost keepsake found by a stranger will in due course become priceless. Don’t ask why, or how.
PING-PING
Five minutes later…
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
▬▬
Late sunshine, Tuesday afternoon. Try to decipher a scrawled word. Fail. Follow that up by observing a miniature French poodle, dyed fully magenta, walk along the plaza. Look over at the graffiti that says: Life is a Bitch in Heat. Count your blessings on your broken fingers.
PING-PING
Revisit Tuesday morning. Take in the scent of red roses out of the blue for the second week in a row. A premonition of death? Memories are made of this. Childhood, childhood. He had a great childhood, he told me. When he grew up he became a booze and drugs enthusiast.
A couple of weeks ago he told me that he may be going insane. For the last four months he has slept on a cardboard for a mattress in a dilapidated cellar, with Coco, a feline with probing eyes, his only constant companion. What would his parents say if they saw him now? It’s a good thing they’re both dead. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Eidolons cannot cry. Eidolons have no feelings. However, there is no certified proof that any of that is in fact true. Believe what you will: heaven, hell, eidolons, doomsday scenarios…
PING-PING
Childhood, childhood. It was great, he says. He took the strap ten times across his ass from his grandpa. It did the trick. Unlike me, he never again forgot the story of Job.
The last time I was with him I saw that he had a missing front tooth. “You should see the other guy. I could’ve crushed him. But, then, I would’ve had to get the hell out of town.”
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
▬▬
Unsettled Wednesday. In the midst of no return, think about getting through the next five hours. Better yet, try to think of nothing at all. Be an automaton without sense of time, or regret. Be strictly mechanical. It may be beneficial because tomorrow may never happen. And then what?
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
▬▬
When Thursday’s rainstorm drowns the homeless kittens, catch the latest zeitgeist as it spirals off a rollercoaster. Ride it like you would a wild horse, crashing into the stratosphere.
A little after 2 a.m. —
PING-PING
Five or so minutes later —
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
▬▬
Oom-pah-pah! Friday’s earbud music casts a spell. Digital beats drone on the burnt wings of a firebird. Oom-pah-pah! One for the ages.
PING-PING
Five or so minutes later —
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
▬▬
During lunchtime on Saturday, the brain, thinking of the future, gets energized: What will I look like ten years from now? What will the people I know look like ten years from now? Install the age progression software and discover your future self, unless you’re afraid it might scare you, or the dough, at the moment, cannot be coughed up, or crapped out. “Money is like shit.” I forgot who said that.
Note to self: Look up “money is like shit” —
Porno Saturday evening on a mobile. Seemingly endless variations on a theme. Smut and the human disorder. Technology will save the world from annihilation, so the technocrats keep saying until they fully believe it. By that time, they may well be obsolete.
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
▬▬
Sunday, 12:32 a.m. —
PING - PING
Meet Dick at one-thirty in the morning. Hit a couple of dives down by the waterfront. Down the hatch all night long, and in-between shots, belt out an old school karaoke number, These Eyes.
Outside, a thick fog settles in. Silently I ask myself, “Do my eyes have a blind spot?”
When morning light breaks on a bleary-eyed Sunday, with Coco nudging your arm in a cellar hideaway, a few minutes after the stroke of eleven, wait until the last minute, then turn down the volume in your head. Analgesics come in handy…anal, what?
Note to self: re-look up the psychobabble term: anal retentive.
Later in the day…
PING - PING
Noteworthy thinker and disgraced monk: Francis Bacon. Manure. It’s good for the economy. Spread it around.
Noteworthy thinker and ex-cocaine addict: Sigismund Schlomo Freud. Phase number two: anal retentive — obsessing over personal crap.
Selling merchandise most of the day and into night. No rest for the wicked.
PING - PING
Hallelujah, momentarily
=======
Based in Tampa, FL, Linc Madison writes fiction in his spare time. He is an avid swimmer, snorkeler, and jet skier.
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Seven Days Make a Week
Monday morning, get on a stallion, ride it to the coast near Manderley, seven miles from the city. Once there, sit in lotus position by the shoreline. Sounds of soothing ocean waves caress you, front-to-back, head-to-toe, outside-in, inside-out, in natural Sensurround, diminishing stress by half. Twenty minutes later, you feel refreshed. Reverse course and salvage a lost object of obvious sentimental value that someone unbeknownst left behind. Perhaps someone’s lost keepsake found by a stranger will in due course become priceless. Don’t ask why, or how.
PING-PING
Five minutes later…
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
Late sunshine, Tuesday afternoon. Try to decipher a scrawled word. Fail. Follow that up by observing a miniature French poodle, dyed fully magenta, walk along the plaza. Look over at the graffiti that says: Life is a Bitch in Heat. Count your blessings on your broken fingers.
PING-PING
Revisit Tuesday morning. Take in the scent of red roses out of the blue for the second week in a row. A premonition of death? Memories are made of this. Childhood, childhood. He had a great childhood, he told me. When he grew up he became a booze and drugs enthusiast.
A couple of weeks ago he told me that he may be going insane. For the last four months he has slept on a cardboard for a mattress in a dilapidated cellar, with Coco, a feline with probing eyes, his only constant companion. What would his parents say if they saw him now? It’s a good thing they’re both dead. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Eidolons cannot cry. Eidolons have no feelings. However, there is no certified proof that any of that is in fact true. Believe what you will: heaven, hell, eidolons, doomsday scenarios…
PING-PING
Childhood, childhood. It was great, he says. He took the strap ten times across his ass from his grandpa. It did the trick. Unlike me, he never again forgot the story of Job.
The last time I was with him I saw that he had a missing front tooth. “You should see the other guy. I could’ve crushed him. But, then, I would’ve had to get the hell out of town.”
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
Unsettled Wednesday. In the midst of no return, think about getting through the next five hours. Better yet, try to think of nothing at all. Be an automaton without sense of time, or regret. Be strictly mechanical. It may be beneficial because tomorrow may never happen. And then what?
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
When Thursday’s rainstorm drowns the homeless kittens, catch the latest zeitgeist as it spirals off a rollercoaster. Ride it like you would a wild horse, crashing into the stratosphere.
A little after 2 a.m. —
PING-PING
Five or so minutes later —
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
Oom-pah-pah! Friday’s earbud music casts a spell. Digital beats drone on the burnt wings of a firebird. Oom-pah-pah! One for the ages.
PING-PING
Five or so minutes later —
PING-PING
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
During lunchtime on Saturday, the brain, thinking of the future, gets energized: What will I look like ten years from now? What will the people I know look like ten years from now? Install the age progression software and discover your future self, unless you’re afraid it might scare you, or the dough, at the moment, cannot be coughed up, or crapped out. “Money is like shit.” I forgot who said that.
Note to self: Look up “money is like shit” —
Porno Saturday evening on a mobile. Seemingly endless variations on a theme. Smut and the human disorder. Technology will save the world from annihilation, so the technocrats keep saying until they fully believe it. By that time, they may well be obsolete.
Selling merchandise most of the day and into the night.
Sunday, 12:32 a.m. —
PING - PING
Meet Dick at one-thirty in the morning. Hit a couple of dives down by the waterfront. Down the hatch all night long, and in-between shots, belt out an old school karaoke number, These Eyes.
Outside, a thick fog settles in. Silently I ask myself, “Do my eyes have a blind spot?”
When morning light breaks on a bleary-eyed Sunday, with Coco nudging your arm in a cellar hideaway, a few minutes after the stroke of eleven, wait until the last minute, then turn down the volume in your head. Analgesics come in handy…anal, what?
Note to self: re-look up the psychobabble term: anal retentive.
Later in the day…
PING - PING
Noteworthy thinker and disgraced monk: Francis Bacon. Manure. It’s good for the economy. Spread it around.
Noteworthy thinker and ex-cocaine addict: Sigismund Schlomo Freud. Phase number two: anal retentive — obsessing over personal crap.
Selling merchandise most of the day and into night. No rest for the wicked.
PING - PING
Hallelujah, momentarily
Based in Tampa, FL, Linc Madison writes fiction in his spare time. He is an avid swimmer, snorkeler, and jet skier.
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