I Build this Treehouse in the Ground
Chp 9: The Ticking
Clenching and clenching and clenching. His fingers had dug smooth grooves into what was once a perfect arrangement of coarse tree armor. "Tick, tick, tick," he heard.
Think.
"Wipe your face before you vomit," they told him.
"It would be a shame to die before you live," They told him.
Think. Think.
It was in intervals of five, yet the ticking made that peculiar chime at a firm sequence of multiples of six-- ten to be particular. He forgot the name.
"Nod your head, nod your head, nod your head!" they told him.
"When you move I am only so much closer!" They told him.
Think. Think. Think.
But both touch and sound joined hands, creating what once was one-dimensional, falsely artistic, and inadequately important into what was a new friend. This new friend found his hair like fingers and returned the clenching forcefully. He was not going to lose this new feeling, the feeling of vibration conjoining with sound, music even--each tick was like the puzzle coming together. What was once his memories was now a jumbled salmagundi. Each piece sitting under that light, lettuce rotting brown, slowly nature would remove their beautiful mysteries and what would be left would seem to enter the pigs mouth. The memories would saturate and settle, eventually finding its home in the pig's belly. Only next the memories would be chopped, tenderized, and fried. The words would sit in basking fat under a heat wave of red light--only to enter the guzzling tantrum of a hole that passed through endless traps and acid producing pools. He certainly did not want that to happen.
Think. Think. Think. Think!
But clenching still he found what was once so majestic, yet haunting to his own likings. The dark world brought him this arbor and this magical ticking which he finally heard.
"Clock," He remembered.
Clenching and clenching and clenching. His fingers had dug smooth grooves into what was once a perfect arrangement of coarse tree armor. "Tick, tick, tick," he heard.
Think.
"Wipe your face before you vomit," they told him.
"It would be a shame to die before you live," They told him.
Think. Think.
It was in intervals of five, yet the ticking made that peculiar chime at a firm sequence of multiples of six-- ten to be particular. He forgot the name.
"Nod your head, nod your head, nod your head!" they told him.
"When you move I am only so much closer!" They told him.
Think. Think. Think.
But both touch and sound joined hands, creating what once was one-dimensional, falsely artistic, and inadequately important into what was a new friend. This new friend found his hair like fingers and returned the clenching forcefully. He was not going to lose this new feeling, the feeling of vibration conjoining with sound, music even--each tick was like the puzzle coming together. What was once his memories was now a jumbled salmagundi. Each piece sitting under that light, lettuce rotting brown, slowly nature would remove their beautiful mysteries and what would be left would seem to enter the pigs mouth. The memories would saturate and settle, eventually finding its home in the pig's belly. Only next the memories would be chopped, tenderized, and fried. The words would sit in basking fat under a heat wave of red light--only to enter the guzzling tantrum of a hole that passed through endless traps and acid producing pools. He certainly did not want that to happen.
Think. Think. Think. Think!
But clenching still he found what was once so majestic, yet haunting to his own likings. The dark world brought him this arbor and this magical ticking which he finally heard.
"Clock," He remembered.
posted by Henry at 2:08 AM
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