It's about time I post again, so I'm going to show you all something I wrote for creative writing class. We read a story where temperature was used as an important aspect of plot development called "Big 32," and our assignment was to write something that used numbers of _____/prices/temperature/years, etc. as a way to help draw readers in. Or something. I was trying to think of something that most other people probably wouldn't do, and I came up with this.
92 – that’s how many empty Red Bull cans there are littering his bathroom floor, sink, bathtub, and maybe tomorrow there will be ninety-three if he needs it, and even though he’ll know that 92 plus 1 equals 93, he’ll have to count them all over again just to make sure. If he passes a can of the energy drink in a gas station, he can’t go through the exit door until he’s bought one. He doesn’t even drink the liquid, just dumps it down his impeccably cleaned kitchen sink, watches until it swirls down the drain all the way. His former roommate (brianbrianbrianbrian) used to laugh at the ten cans he had gathered (back then, months ago) on the space between the bathroom door and the wall, asking, not with bad intentions, just sort of perplexed, “You that desperate to get wings?” And he would shrug and shake his head and remove the tab from the newest can before counting to eleven.
70 – this many hours spent awake all at once two weeks ago, just rocking, thinking about how his skin felt sort of tingly, and that wasn’t a good sign, he hadn’t washed his hands hard enough earlier that day (although chafed and McIntosh apple skin begged to differ), maybe the mustachioed pharmacist hadn’t given him the right kind of antibacterial soap and now he had flesh-eating bacteria all over him and he would die slowly, painfully, sores bursting and skin tingling until he couldn’t feel it anymore.
34 – this many dollars lost each time he visits the hospital and the homeless man outside asks if he can spare some change for someone in need. And he really can’t spare any, bills are piling up and he counts them every morning, but more than he can’t afford it, he can’t afford not to. Three tens and four ones later, his chest loosens up and he can breathe enough to walk inside the double doors and out again and right back in again.
8 – it’s silly and he knows, and that makes it all the worse, when he can’t leave a room last without shutting the lights on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off. You’re wasting electricity, his late mother’s voice says, and he knows, but he also knows that if he doesn’t do this the house might crumble and crack and the ceiling will fall through his stomach leaving him gutted and turning stark white paint carmine.
Yeah, it's not really complete, but we only had to do a paragraph and I went a little overboard as it is. I may finish it someday if I feel the need to. I had to do a bit of research on obsessive compulsive disorder, which is where the numbers come in if you didn't realize. :)
I may do some picspams today since I have time on my hands. WOO! Go writing/reading/my creative writing teacher (who is AWESOME, by the way).