07 - Potholes

Exercise 07: Patterns/Style/Potholes: "Take 750 words of one of your own failed stories [...] Next, eliminate two of every three sentences throughout the fragment [...] Now, you can add sentences or phrases; however, you can't rearrange the original order of your cut-up story [...] 500 words."

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DREAMSCAPE

The room had ugly colors and I ultimately was depressed about the new space. The phone would ring, but I would not answer it. Eventually I decided I would answer the phone, but not right away. So I let it ring for one, two, three, four rings. I failed to answer it in time. I followed someone outside and eventually found Michael. After some confusion we followed a group of people walking down a hill (on the way I realized that Michael's shack was gone too--all the shacks were now gone) and stood on a balcony. Below us, a group of muscled men were showering. A woman laughed.

We all walked back to the boarding house, which I found far more stimulating on the outside than the inside. Mrs. Madrigal opened a hidden door to the structure that I had not formerly noticed. "My present to you, children."

Inside the room there were various sexual couplings on a number of beds. I pensively, and hypnotically, removed my clothes and became temporarily self-conscious. Nothing happened. Once again disappointed, I left the bed. At this point I was conscious of myself only as a presence, rather than a body. I floated.

A door at the end of the room lead to an ocean shore. There was lookout tower I climbed to the top of, a tree house missing a tree. I found a man and his sub in a room, wooden planked floors, sunlight streaming through cracks in the wall. You could see nothing from the tower but a rocky mountain wall and the vastness of the ocean-void. I was mostly uninterested (in both the men and my surroundings) and walked out of the house. Michael stayed and began a conversation with the men. I continued to walk along the coast.

I passed orgies foregrounded against industrial walls, a large number of couples fucking on public park benches, endless naked women and men caressing other nude bodies, and disembodied genitals floating in shallow pits along the shore, and but I found no one who sought my attention, nor did I find anyone whose attention I desired. Sex was no longer an action, but a product.

"Your boyfriend ruined my relationship!" A young man came running towards me, hands waving in the air. I did not have a boyfriend, but I followed him anyway. The shack was closer now, and I climbed into a bed. I found my face was parallel to Michael's face, which was wrapped in plastic: he was alive, and he smiled at me. I wrapped my arms around his frame before reaching my hands toward his dick. It was large and had a pleasant amount of foreskin, and the experience of sucking it reminded me of snow melting in my warm mouth.