jasonabadboy4u 30M
48 posts
6/11/2006 3:12 am

Last Read:
9/14/2006 1:35 am


This story was influenced by the Metallica song Creeping Death which is on the Metallica album Ride The Lightning. Also included on the same album is the Metallica song Fade To Black. Which is the song that inspired me to write poetry.

One morning, John found himself walking along a busy downtown street. He stared around at the shops and cars in confusion, having no idea why he was there or where he was going. It seemed as though he had suddenly wakened from a dream and found himself back in reality. Coming around a corner, John looked straight ahead at the brilliant morning sky. A deep set blue with purple and pink clouds hovering in the distance. The sun was still low in the sky. The light almost blinded him and sent a sharp pain through his head. He pressed his hand against his forehead and then drew it away, noticing the dark red flakes on it. Strange, he thought, the flakes looked almost like dried blood. Feeling suddenly weak, John sat down on the curb and tried to understand what was happening to him. A few seconds later, a car sped by, almost hitting him. John jerked back and tried to jump to his feet. But his body was so sore that he had trouble just standing up. He brushed off the dust from his clothes and noticed that he was wearing his best suit and a pair of highly polished shoes. But when he pulled up his coat sleeve to check the time, he found that he wasn't wearing his watch. That was the strangest thing of all. He never took his watch off, not even to sleep. Being on time was an obsession with him. Now, more than ever, he felt lost and confused. What was he doing here in the middle of town? And what time was it? John began to wander aimlessly down the street. Ahead of him on the sidewalk he recognized the woman who worked in his dentist's office. He walked up behind her and tapped her shoulder. "Excuse me, Mr's Smith, could you tell me the time? I Don't seem to have my watch on." The woman whirled around at the sound of his voice. Her eyes widened as she stared at his face. Then, with a piercing scream, she ran away down the street. John stood frozen in place on the sidewalk, watching her flee. He asked himself why her face had contorted with fear at the sight of him. Was there something horrifying about the way he looked? Passing his hand over his face, he felt a strange bump on his forehead. And, once again, he saw the dark red flakes on his hand. John turned and walked toward the large glass window of a store along the sidewalk. His reflection wavered in it, looking ghostly in the morning light. There seemed to be a strange, dark bruise on his forehead, and his face looked as white as the stiffly starched shirt he wore. John walked on in the direction of the street where he lived with his wife in a small, two bedroom house. They had never had children because John had forbidden it. He was sure that children would upset his schedule and make him late. Being late was something he could not tolerate. Now, for some reason that he didn't understand, John felt sure that he was going to be late for an extremely important appointment. He knew his wife could tell him what it was, and she would have a warm breakfast waiting. It was odd, though, he didn't feel in the least bit hungry. Just then, a school bus rumbled by, and John stared up into its windows. Staring back at him was little Cindy, the little girl who lived next door. John saw her raise her hand and point at him. Her mouth was open wide as though she were laughing, or screaming. A moment later, every child's face in the windows was staring at him. John glared at the bus as it moved down the street. Obviously, he had been right not to have children if they all acted that rudely. John found that his knees were growing weaker and weaker. He began to wish that someone he knew would drive by so that he could wave them down and ask them for a ride. John slumped against the pole of a stoplight near a street corner and stared up the road. In the distance he saw a car that he recognized. It belonged to his secretary, Miss Spencer. John stood up straight and waved his arms. Luckily, the stoplight turned red just as the car approached. The car slowed down to a stop at the light, but Miss Spencer was busy looking in the rearview mirror. As she put on her lipstick. John walked out into the street and tried to open the door on the passenger's side. It was locked. He rapped his knuckles on the window and peered in at Miss Spencer. She stared back at him with a look of horror on her face; then she gripped the steering wheel and pressed down on the gas pedal. The car shot forward through the red light, throwing John onto the street. Vowing to fire Miss Spencer the first chance he got, John picked himself up and limped back to the sidewalk. His head was throbbing with pain now. He looked down at his trembling hands and saw that the skin was pale, pale as ivory, and so dry that it was almost brittle. John staggered over to a storefront with a mirrored window and looked into it. There were dark circles around his sunken eyes. His lips seemed drained of color and wouldn't move when he tried to smile. His skin seemed to reflect the bluish color of the bruise on his forehead. A dark fear spread through John's body, followed by the strange sense of panic. He was going to be late. And whatever appointment he had, he couldn't miss it. Behind him, John saw a telephone booth reflected in the mirror. That was the answer. He could call his wife and have her come get him. She could check his calendar and find out where it was that he had to be. John walked as quickly as his stiff legs would carry him to the telephone booth. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him. For a moment, he was overcome by a wave of claustrophobia. The booth was so narrow; it felt almost like a coffin. John fumbled in his pant pockets for a coin, but they were empty. Then he saw a shiny quarter left behind by the last person using the phone. "What luck," he thought as he slipped it into the money slot and pushed the buttons for his home phone number. The first ring of the phone sounded very, very far away. John found himself struggling to breathe. The air seemed dead in the small telephone booth. The phone in his house rang a second time. His wife usually answered right after the second ring. But, still, there was only silence, a stifling, lonely silence. John didn't think he could stay in the narrow booth another second. His hands began to claw desperately at the handle of the door. Finally, he heard a clicking sound on the other end of the telephone line. The receiver was being picked up. A strange man's voice said, "Hello." "Is . . . is Mrs Qualls there?" John gasped. The man didn't answer for a moment. Then, in an anxious voice, he said, "Oh no, Mrs. Qualls just left for the graveyard. Haven't you heard? Her husband died two days ago in a car accident downtown." John didn't hear any more of what the man said. The phone slipped out of his white bony hands and dangled from its cord. Then John pushed open the door of the telephone booth and lunged out. He would have to hurry. But he could still get to the graveyard on time.

Become a member to create a blog