# Perhaps (A short story)



## skycloud86 (Jul 15, 2009)

I've just written this, so I would appreciate comments, constructive criticism and stuff like that.

*A/N – based on a writing tip in "The Pocket Muse", by Monica Wood.*

He never got out of the bathtub.

Three hours and two minutes of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic boat, anchored to the bathroom floor. His eyes, a rich brown, would stray for hours around the bathroom, observing every shadow that the intruding sunlight created, watching as the room became dark, then light as the sun and moon danced around the Earth outside. Sometimes he would sit up and contemplate using what little energy he had left to climb out of the bathtub, but he would soon be lying down again, his by now greasy brown hair a makeshift pillow.

"Is the plan to lie there for the rest of your breathing seconds?," A voice would reply from behind the bathroom door. Female, young and by now the sound of a forgotten friend or relative. He concluded that she lived in the house with him, and imagined what she looked like and what her name could be.

"Perhaps," he would whisper, a couple of seconds after the memory of her voice started to fade, and he counted the footsteps as her shoe-clad feet knocked on floorboards. He knew she would come back at some unscheduled time in the future and ask the exact same question, in the exact same voice and tone, and with the exact same indifference.

Three days and two hours of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic bath, and the bathroom door had creaked open slowly. He assumed that it was the female who asked him the question over and over with no real concern for what the answer would be. He couldn't see her from where he was in the tub, and he had no desire to peer over the synthetic fence he was surrounded by. It was if he didn't want to know anything about the voice that he couldn't hear, or couldn't imagine in his mind – the illusion of this stranger and potential loved one that he had forgotten all those hours ago seemed so much better than the truth he would be facing if he did decide to look at her.

He expected her to say something, but the door soon closed shut again, and he noticed how delicate the operation had been. She could have slammed it, even swung it to and fro a couple of times before closing the door, but all she did was to quietly and slowly drag it though the air that smelled of soap and deodorant.

"Perhaps not," he told himself in a whisper, before his mind wandered off to some urgent fantasy that required his full attention.

Nine days, three hours and two minutes of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic bath, and he was feeling hungry. Thirst had been no problem – there was a tap above his head, and all he needed to do was to turn it so that the cool water slipped out in a tiny stream from tap to open mouth. Contemplating the potential taste and health benefits of a bar of dry soap, he decided that it was better not to think about the hunger and to return to the thoughts that had kept him within the confines of his white cell.

"Still alive?," the female voice, which had not bothered to speak for some days, spoke to him. The voice was weary now, as if his hunger affected her, and he wondered if it was his anima talking to him and not some friend behind the door. He wondered if she wanted to know because she cared for him, or because she needed the bathroom and had gotten sick of using public toilets and the neighbour's bathroom.

"Perhaps," he spoke, slightly louder than he had done, and he could tell that he had startled the voice behind the door. Concerned, he sat up and looked at the wooden door that seperated him from her. He remembered it was painted white, although it was currently the middle of the night so the colour looked like a grey.

"Perhaps," he spoke again, this time in a whisper, and he could hear the footsteps again. Having confirmed his status to the voice, it appeared as if she had no time for conversation, and had vanished once more into what he could only assume was the rest of the house. Any memory of what existed beyond that door was fading fast, although it was nothing to worry about for him. His bath-tub was all the world he needed for his body, because his mind was a planet of its own.

Thirteen days, nine hours and three minutes of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic bath, and the hair on his head and face had begun to crawl into his mouth, his eyes, his ears and nose. His skin was becoming sore and itchy, and the lack of food was hurting his body. Inside his head, however, life continued as normal, as if his brain was unaware of any such bodily suffering.

Expecting the voice to speak to him at that moment, he was confused to hear silence. Thinking he had gone deaf, he pushed away the hair from his ears and listened carefully, but if she had spoken to him, she was in no mood to repeat herself.

"Perhaps?," he asked quietly, his voice weak and sounding almost childlike. He hoped to get the voice to reply, but the silence – the silence was a sure sign that the voice was not there anymore, and he wondered if the world had gone. If he were to get out of the bath-tub, which was a close to impossible task in his condition, and if he were to open the bathroom door, what would he find?

He never got out of the bathtub.


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## Promethea (Aug 24, 2009)

In all of my wanderings, in the forest, observing, analyzing.. I spied an exceptional growth.. flower.. 

I walk barefoot, nimble but careful.. No maybe not so nimble.. I seem so.. I'm ..

Flower! I address you.. You are not - you don't hear me. 

I think that if I don't cut back the potential growth of the forest around you, you may become smothered..

You are so beautiful to me that I would like to dig you up, and put you in my own pot -- but you would grow 

better out there..


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## Promethea (Aug 24, 2009)

*Symposia.*


The night was a sweltering fever. Delirium, and careless interaction under string lights on a filthy porch in a southern swamp, with copious amounts of alcohol and unbridled expression. The humidity and mist were so thick, that the illusions caused from drunkenness could turn into waves carrying cosmic truths that she could physically feel seep in.

A pang. Dread. Something glides through the strands that connect every one, every thing, the universe, time and imagination. Slowly, from a distance, chilling live wires to icicles, it comes closer like a jaunty messenger, not knowing the weight of the devastation, just that it burns to deliver it. 

If the moment didn't hold such a sense of wonder, its first whisper would have been a soul quaking revelation to her. Take her right down. 

Then it strikes. 

What hit. Just a flurry of lights, and music.. as she falls down, and never gets back up. Growth through cracks.. vines entangle her limbs, time attracts moisture and mold.. rot. Her form changes, becomes something with less definition. She is now vaguely more than the scenery unless you look very closely. Now not even ghosts would haunt this place. Forgotten.

Spring eventually dawns on newer, less magnificent structures, celebrated in the sun. But, even in her ruins you could still see more majesty, if you knew how to look.


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## skycloud86 (Jul 15, 2009)

Those are beautiful, creative and original, Promethea.


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