Paul started to get scared. He couldn't handle this level of incentive. And it was a high level of pleasure and pain at the same time. "I need to find a job," he thought. "Something to pass the time, and financial stability for my family". He was looking for the magic mushrooms in his life. They were around here somewhere.
Hopefully he could find them before they disappeared. And before they went back into hiding. That way he could munch on them all he wanted to. They sure were tasty to his palate. Munching on them would be a mind-blowing experience.
And then he could call his friend up and tell her all about it. Sarah was his friend, she could look at him and bring up a very swell attitude of gratitude. Hey that rhymed. He was waiting for inspiration on both sides of the story. Maybe he would get it and maybe he would not.
Can't knock it he thought. Paul would eventually experiment with his submission of doubt. Weatherford, Texas would be his stomping ground for a long time coming round'. Man it is windy outside. Windy enough to start another merry-go-round. And then they would disappear in a travel of spiderwebs.
Maybe someday he would sparkle the way that he felt for her a thousand times over. That would be an awesome trip for everyone. Planted through the fog of a thousand perpendicular thoughts. I do not think he has started his chores yet, he has been spending all day playing video games. But that was ok for him because he would get in trouble at the end of the day. Paul was current with his chores because he knew the value of working hard for what he wanted. Rod on the other hand did not.
They gave him powers that he could not handle for anyone to adore him in the stratosphere. The cloud cover was not something that others would round down, period. The spider thought differently. It would suck out his mind while it munched on the available mushrooms. Maybe then they would satisfy his gut?
Otherwise it would be back to the writing board. And back to the paddle. Something that he did not want to think about or pursue. The writing board was a lot softer of the two. Too many ideas were passing through his mind at the same time, that he could not handle it. This dog and pony show.
He was getting tired of being the bad guy in his own mind. That was not something that he wanted to handle on his own. At least the speech therapy seemed to be helping. The mind control spasm of yesteryear. Tension was building up and he did not even know it, but he was about to find out the hard way.
Onions made him cry over and over. The appeal was something that he could not hide for awhile. Uniqueness and smoothality was something that he could afford. Im getting a good buzz at the same time was something that he thought. He was iconic at the same current. One more story down on his belt and he would leave the thought aside for others to judge. Adios muchachos. He could not handle the pressure that everyone else was giving him. California was a place that he wanted to go to.
Since he was a child, that was all he wanted to do. Ride on the skateboard and shoot the shit. Then he would be an amazing writer and everyone would love him again. In the meantime his bum hurt.
About the Creator
Alex Jennett
Just starting to publish my works. Enjoy listening to music and writing poetry. I am surprised that since I started writing, within 2 years, with Vocal I have created 78 stories. Music and the written word, help me ease my high anxiety.
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More stories from Alex Jennett and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Monday
Boy monday's are really boring. It is the start of a really long week. Maybe it will end in a spasma of more goodness. The puppy got loose today. It was running all over the lawn, looking for friends to play with. That was just something that I observed this morning. It carried me through the day as an inspriational beacon.
By Alex Jennett2 years ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins2 days ago in Fiction
Create Your Personal Vocal Homepage
I'm not a Vocal Newbie (not that there's anything wrong with that), and I'm technologically comfortable. But, I'm also perhaps too comfortable. I think I know, even if I know that I don't know what I don't know, I still think I know more that I do know.
By Judey Kalchik 2 days ago in Writers
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