Black Licorice
Black Licorice
The call came in on the landline. He was a little nervous every time the ring rose an octave higher than his cell—the landline was only for family and telemarketers; both made him equally flustered.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
The voice from the other line was saccharine with the aftertaste of black licorice, kind of like absinthe, but even woozier; even more lucid of a feeling, like getting hit with a toy sledgehammer while wearing a real helmet.
He slammed the phone down. Tore the line out of the wall and defenestrated the phone. This action brought on a car alarm and then another and another, until the whole neighborhood awoke with indignation and fury.
The doorbell rang. This was even an octave higher than his landline, and accordingly, made him just as agitated—only family and strangers rang the doorbell; both made him equally flustered.
The door swung open as if pushed by a bellicose ghost.
WHOOOSH!
It was no ghost, however. It was far worse. The townspeople gathered round, the pitchforks gleaming in the sky, the moon illuminating the cold, nefarious edges of the cruel instruments and creating shadows of obscured light which reflected off his terrified face. Effigies burning, mouths chanting, imprecations hurled like javelins aimed at his very being.
And there was the voice again. The licentious voice that could intoxicate him with grenadine; the powerful hymn of not liberty but of libertines!
Eyes inundated him from all directions, as he realized his time had come. The orb of dolor was upon him and it was a transient effect of relief followed by fear and something bittersweet as the aftertaste, but it was not black licorice he tasted: it was familiar, familial, pain and sincere gratitude for sheparding him through to adulthood, incontinence and pride, long gone and forever lasting…
The call came in on the landline. He was a little nervous every time the ring rose an octave higher than his cell—the landline was only for family and telemarketers; both made him equally flustered.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
The voice from the other line was saccharine with the aftertaste of black licorice, kind of like absinthe, but even woozier; even more lucid of a feeling, like getting hit with a toy sledgehammer while wearing a real helmet.
He slammed the phone down. Tore the line out of the wall and defenestrated the phone. This action brought on a car alarm and then another and another, until the whole neighborhood awoke with indignation and fury.
The doorbell rang. This was even an octave higher than his landline, and accordingly, made him just as agitated—only family and strangers rang the doorbell; both made him equally flustered.
The door swung open as if pushed by a bellicose ghost.
WHOOOSH!
It was no ghost, however. It was far worse. The townspeople gathered round, the pitchforks gleaming in the sky, the moon illuminating the cold, nefarious edges of the cruel instruments and creating shadows of obscured light which reflected off his terrified face. Effigies burning, mouths chanting, imprecations hurled like javelins aimed at his very being.
And there was the voice again. The licentious voice that could intoxicate him with grenadine; the powerful hymn of not liberty but of libertines!
Eyes inundated him from all directions, as he realized his time had come. The orb of dolor was upon him and it was a transient effect of relief followed by fear and something bittersweet as the aftertaste, but it was not black licorice he tasted: it was familiar, familial, pain and sincere gratitude for sheparding him through to adulthood, incontinence and pride, long gone and forever lasting…
posted by neilly bojangles at 1:31 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home