Mescaline Brisset
Bio
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
Find me on Medium
Achievements (1)
Stories (772/0)
Acting Like a Pug
I woke up this morning with an unusually large amount of energy. It was so surprising as I spent my last night partying intensely, which involved imbibing a mixture of many different alcohols, smoking lots of substances I didn’t even have a proper knowledge about, and being in close contact with gentle sex on multitudinous occasions and rooms. I tried to stretch my legs, arms, and back on the bed, yet something was blocking me, as if my nearly six-foot-tall body of a male model shrunk like an old cotton T-shirt washed at too high a temperature. There was also a forest of far too much hair covering my legs and arms. Something was wrong. I jumped out of bed in a hurry to figure out what was happening to me. When I stood in front of the mirror in a black wooden frame, leaning against the wall, I noticed something awfully odd. My torso rested on four legs, I had a tightly curled tail, and my entire silhouette was that of a dog. As a matter of fact, I looked exactly like a dog. French bulldog breed: short, plump, and ugly creature with deeply wrinkled face parallel to a raging bull – the very opposite of my former existence as a human being.
By Mescaline Brisset3 years ago in Fiction
Magical Roman Barn in The Marigold Field
For several days I’ve been wandering wearily through the fields and still don’t know where I come from, where I am, and where I am going… I’m going straight ahead; my closest friends are wheat, rye, barley, oats… Marmots, mice, moles, grasshoppers… Poppies, cornflowers, bluebells, Lychnis viscaria… Herbarium and menagerie have always been my strengths. The images in front of my wide-open eyelids grind like grain in a combine. I wouldn’t dare to count them all. They’re constantly changing, I would never keep up with their directions that tempt with colours, smells, textures, viscosities… Sparrows storm the air with the frequency of the wind over the river. I passed one scarecrow which made me laugh as the crows couldn’t hide their audacity and perched on it like hens in a coop. Sparrowhawks and goshawks put in their two pennyworths to this masquerade, circling my head as if they were going to grab my hat to enrich their field collection. My footsteps are as regular as the ticking of a second hand of a clock trailing the traces of time. My knapsack is filled with random goods provided by a saleswoman from a local village bakery in the morning: brioche, yoghurt, milk, honey… Since I don’t possess any money, she gave it to me for free. She offered sweets as well, there were so many on the store shelves, yet I don’t know that stuff. She said that was probably why I never needed a dentist. I don’t even know who that person is. Some doctor, I guess.
By Mescaline Brisset3 years ago in Fiction