Waking Up

         A sunny, Saturday afternoon in November was just around the corner; in fact it was nearly 2 hours away. Much too late to wake up. At exactly 11:14, George Partridge happily opened his eyes from a deep sleep, feeling a sense of entitlement. Staring at the bright ceiling almost glowing with sunlight, but still filled with shadows cast from his open window, he remembered why he was joyful. The previous night he had landed a job with Decor, the nation's best home insurance company. Delirious with glee, he jumped out of bed, threw on his bathrobe, and skittered down the hall to go make some breakfast.
         Eating his microwaved huevos rancheros, and humming along to a Queen song playing on the radio, he couldn't wait to start work on Monday. He ran outside, laughing, screaming at the sky, and, after waking up all the neighbors, (much to their irritation) he realized something. He stopped cold. He looked around. The same Queen song he had heard earlier on the radio was playing again. He went back inside. The radio was turned off. He turned it on. A different song was playing. He walked back outside, this time curious. "You're My Best Friend" was still playing. He paced up and down the streets, trying to tell where it was coming from. It seemed too general, too loud, too unreal. Was he the only one who could hear it? Was he going completely insane?

...Oooh, you make me live...

         He went to the house directly next to his own. He knocked on the door. Nobody home. He put his ear to the door, only to find that it wasn't coming from there.

...whatever this world can give to me...

Starting to panic, he went to the next house. He rapidly knocked on the door.

...It's you, you're all I see...

A dazed but surprised Mrs. Johan came out, curlers in her hair.
         "DON'T YOU HEAR IT?" cried George, yelling over the sound.
Mrs. Johan looked taken aback.
         "I—I don't..." she said, confused.

...I've been with you such a long time...

         George slammed the door and started running. He didn't know where. The music followed closely behind, and together they ran. He couldn't escape, couldn't go back. He covered his ears to shut off the sound.
         Relief poured over him like a bucket of cold milk after a run in the desert. It streamed down his face as he sighed. He lowered his hands. Whoops! There it went, a blast of sound exploding into him again. What was happening?

...You know I'll never be lonely
You're my only one...

         It seemed to be coming from the sky! Clapping his hands back over his ears, he paced through the streets of downtown, where he now found himself. Muttering to himself, he bumped into a policeman, who immediately commanded him to halt.
         George quickly opened his eyes with a start. He looked around, bewildered. His small, radio alarm clock said 9:00, and was playing "You're My Best Friend." George sighed and swung his legs out from bed, and stood up. Soon after this, he found himself slowly descending down an escalator with his Cappuccino and brown, flannel suit. He passed the secretary's office, and went in to his. As he sat down, something caught his eye. A small package tied with one thin, perfect string was nonchalantly resting there. He picked it up and immediately dropped it. It was much denser and heavier than he had expected. He tried once more.
         Tearing into the brown, paper, wrapping, he uncovered a red, sparkly box. But there was something awfully funny about the box—there was no lid. There was no place to open it, and when George tried opening it with scissors, he found that the box was hard, and not cardboard. After trying, and pounding, and much work, he found a puny tear in one of the corners. He stuck his fingers through to open it up more, and something fell out of the box. He looked underneath his desk. And there, what had fallen, was a gleaming, black, loaded gun, sparkling with excitement.
         George at first was scared. Was this a plan to try to kill him? He crouched down and picked it up, and, to his surprise, it slipped out of his hands. He picked it up again, this time with a hard grip. It was wet and slippery. But not with water...
         He looked at his hand. There was a glob of what looked like vegetable oil, but smelled worse than an outhouse. He put it aside for now, washed his hands, and began to work. But after a while, he noticed a crackling noise. Almost like a hiss, it sounded as if someone were breaking a thousand tiny pencils, while air streamed out of a full tire. He looked over into the garbage can where he had put the gun, widened his eyes, and vomited.

         In the trash can lay a hideous sight. Twisted and writhing around the gun was glistening, slimy, white, and closely resembling a giant maggot. It had a human face, except one eye was mangled and looked like someone had wiggled a knife around in it, and no hair, and wrinkles. And it had no arms or legs and a misshapen tail. It squirmed around, rolling around in its own slime, like a smushed slug.The creature yelped 3 times at the sight of George, and it's voice was even more repellent than it's body. A cry of a baby fused with the groan of an old man came blurting out of its tangled mouth. George immediately called the police and ran out of his office. But as he ran to the nearest place, he noticed that none of the people in the offices were there. He wailed for someone, but no one was on that floor. He darted to an elevator and shot into one. No one was in it. He sighed in relief, knowing that he would be with humans soon. But, in the elevator, something was bothering him. A bucket in the far corner, near the door. A strange, high-pitched, grumbling noise was coming from it. He scooted away as far from as he could get. But just as the elevator door opened, the hand shot out. George sprinted down the lobby, but no one was there either. He was going back home. He grasped the door handle...
         And it was locked. George Partridge was trapped in a huge building full of surreal creatures, and no one was there to save him. He looked around, and no one was in the building. They all had left. He went to the nearest bathroom, and locked himself in a stall. He leaned against the wall and tried to get a grip on what was happening. But he was soon interrupted by a pounding on the opposite wall.
BOOM BOOM BOOM

George shut his eyes.
BOOM BOOM

He tried to wake himself from the nightmare he suspected he was in.
BOOM BOOM BOOM

But unfortunately, this was reality.


         And that's when he realized it. His cell phone. He opened it up and started dialing 911, but there was no reception. It didn't work. Great. Perfect.
         George squeezed his eyes shut to build up the strength he would need to open the door. He took a deep breath, and pulled open the door. As soon as he did so, however, he regretted it. For in front of George Partridge's eyes, was a creature so repulsive it shouldn't have ever been seen. It had a long, segmented neck that curved and twisted, And mashed up on its face was the most disturbing, buck-toothed grin George had ever seen. Its teeth were crusty and yellow, like most of the skin on it's face. Even some of the wretched flesh was peeling and decaying. Its body was so skinny you could practically see through it; like someone had run over it was a car. It could barely stable itself with only a thin layer of skin over its bones. But apart from all this was the worst of all: its legs. Its legs were normal, average-sized legs, except for the pact that the skin had been peeled away. Only bits of flesh we scattered around it, and most of them were soaked with blood. A little bit of bone was showing, but mostly it was just fat, blood, and muscle, all hanging there, mocking George.
         The creature stood there, as if waiting for George to do something. Its small, beady eyes stared at George, provoking him. Of course, George was paralyzed. He could not, would not, did not have anything to say. And so he stood there, his mouth gaping open, ready to faint. He prevented himself from doing this, as he new he would be defenseless for about an hour after that. So he pushed aside the creature, and rushed out of the building...but...oh yeah, he was locked inside. He started breaking out in tears, and threw his sobbing, he tried the door again. And, much to his surprise, it opened.
         He flung open the door and ran outside. He was free! Free! There were people! He took out his cell phone again, and tried calling 911 to tell about the monsters. It worked. And they came immediately. As he got back in his car, he sighed. Everything was back to normal, now. As he drove home, he wondered what had happened. Had I hallucinated the entire thing? No, because the police were there. No. There must have been a criminal in there, and I was hallucinating everything else. There. Now, I just need to schedule an appointment with a psychologist. And he'll give me pills. And then, no more scary things. Ahh.
But then again...it had seemed so real. He wasn't sure. But nothing was bothering him at the moment, so he was a relieved. That is, until he got home.

         As he pulled into the driveway, his house seemed to glow. Or maybe it was just the light from the sunset. He dropped out of his car, and walked inside his house.
He crawled into bed, hoping that tomorrow would be less crazy. Boy, was he wrong. Because not only was his day going to be crazy, it was going to be life-threatening. And he would know as soon as he woke up. He finally fell asleep—into a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep.


         Jim "Scrawny" Jenkins was anything but scrawny. About 4'4", this guy definitely did NOT need another sandwich. Jim led a pretty average, normal life—that is—if you're abnormally short and morbidly obese.
         Every Thursday night, Jim would play at the "Orange Towel," where he would be mesmerizing the audience with his god-like musical talents.
         Jim had a saxophone.
         But he didn't just play it.
         He massaged it. He fingers ran up and down the sleek, golden body of the saxophone, and you couldn't even tell that he was pushing the buttons. The luxurious sounds came out like a sweet, soft, blue silk. It would flow out of the sax, and wrap itself around everyone's ears. And the soft silks came on, drifting through the room, filling it with wonder and beauty. And for that one moment, no one cared about anything.
         When the song was over, Jim Jenkins would be applauded off stage. He enjoyed life for the most part. Sunday afternoon. After walking into the bookstore, buying 3 books, a chocolate bar, and another sandwich, Jim peacefully spread out on the park bench and read his book. He finished one, and stood up to go back home. When he did so, however—he was immediately shot in the head.
         The funeral was on Saturday.


         George Partridge jumped up and quickly pulled on his clothes. A new day was beginning—no matter how dizzy or sick he felt. He shot out of the room as if flung from a rubber band, and sprinted downstairs to go make some coffee. He splattered cream into it and threw in a packet of Sweet n Low, and headed out the door.
         As he swerved through town, he wondered why he was so..... energized. He finally reached work and charged through the door, rudely not stopping to say hi to the old receptionist. He finally got to his desk, sat down, and alertly scanned around the room, looking for something to do. He tapped his foot, eerily fast, as if something were possessing him. It was then that it occurred to him—he had a gun! I dug around in the trash and quickly produced a shiny, wet gun—still slippery from the day before. He flicked off a little piece of groaning slug and took the gun for a test run. Hmm... he thought. What should I do...?
         And as quickly as had come to work, an idea popped into his demented, hyperactive mind. He found himself at a park, right outside a bookstore.
         He looked around, his head moving in sharp, fast, unnatural movements. He flicked himself over behind a tree and spotted a man, mocking him.

Hello, idiot.

         Ooh, this man was mean.

Oh, you have a gun. Well, you're still a fat ugly idiot.

         George glared at the man. The man, of course, was not saying anything; in fact, he was just reading his book. But obviously this man was secretly provoking George. The way his eyes moved across the page—George knew he was after him.

Yeah, I have a gun in my pocket, too. It's bigger than yours. I'm bigger than you. Better than you, you lazy slug. Nobody ever liked you. That's why you live alone.

         And just as the man stood up to make his move, George took out his gun and shot him.
         Thank God... he breathed. But he had to get out of there fast—because everyone in the park also hated George.

         I watched the sun set that night. I felt it was the appropriate thing to do; contemplating what had happened that day.
         I gazed off into the endless horizon, the vast ocean fading from blue, to purple, to red, and finally to orange. The impossibly round sun descended into the water, slowly sinking, the water burning it out. The sun drifted through the sky, dropping ever so slowly, like a feather, until finally reaching its fate.
         Hugging my knees closer, I readjusted my pants on the flattened but yet tall, leafy grass. The slow disappearance of sun cast an ambient orange light on the usually green grass, tinting it an ugly orange tan. I sighed and threw myself face down on the cool, moist layer of leaves and grass. I inhaled and breathed in the sweet, fresh, smell of soil and sand.
         I stood up to tread on home, pushing myself off the ground and slumping out of exhaustion. I sauntered through the dark, gravely streets, with the trees bordering the road as if protecting us from the unknown bleakness of the stretch of forest beyond our streets.
         As I swung open my front door, I sighed once more. But I quickly stumbled backwards with a yelp as I saw the uninvited guest pull out his gun and point it at me.