Untitled
By: Doug Doughtie
© 1998 by Doug Doughtie

what the hell---- ? the intangible, curling wisps of vapour in the air. a cloud of the last remnants of the bonfire that are still floating about, trying to make their presence known. the fingers sprouting from this noxious sickening fume curl seductively around the leg of the chair. why am i on the floor? why can’t I get up? this venomous mist clings to my throat, squeezing and pulling, forcing me to breathe. i inhale, feeling the warm, sticky, living aroma glide down my throat, infusing me with thoughts and a world i’ve never been able to shake. the room grows darker... or am I just passing out? colours are brighter, sounds clearer and yet, unintelligible. forms, ideas, people sifting in and out of existance. I roll on my side, the room rolling with me about five frames behind. the girl in the cellar, screaming with the electrodes on her brain... there’s a feeling... some kind of catterpillar crawling just below the surface of my skin. i’m being pulled by some kind of force of nature, to a spot, a point, inside my left thigh, like a tiny black hole. there was this presence a long time ago, never left... nausea, the underwater tidal wave. nothing will stop moving. i’m writhing on the floor of an earth-toned kaliedoscope. views start closing, twisting, in an iris-type pattern. colours disappearing... I like this. I hate this. I can’t decide. well, maybe just a little more...