Their Days Are Numbered is a new year-long project authored by the collective Entropy community. It is a collaborative online novel written by the Entropy community on a weekly basis. A different author will write the next “chapter” each week, to be posted every Tuesday, following the previous post from the previous week, and following a very limited set of guidelines (that each author has one week to write the next piece after the previous week’s installment goes up, that installments should range between 150-1500 words, and that pieces should somehow incorporate a real-life occurrence, current event, news item, or other happening from that week).
Follow the entire “novel” here: Their Days Are Numbered.
The twentieth installment is presented this week by JS Breukelaar.
white lines of cocaine drift across the lid of an Altoids bin. Tin, sir, I mean tin, the old brain not being it was, a ragged scar throbbing above my temple as I pass the tin across the anonymous coffee table to an eighteen inch bronze statue of the goddess. Shantih shati shantih fear death by water.”
days earlier my baby son is born at the county hospital where I have strategically finagled employment as an orderly. The flame-haired mother lies mouth-breathing beneath beneficent sheets. The child in a basinet beside her similarly feigning innocence as to its conception. The mother’s green eyes spring open enabling her assessment of the situation going forward in which the bronze statue of the goddess is back in my possession, having retrieved it from the bottom of her duffle bag amidst the type of belongings—protein bar, lip gloss, soccer ball, cheap wallet, Rescue Remedy, Kotex, night-school binder—you might not necessarily associate with redheads with big tits. She is drooling. O O O O O O the baby says, hurry up please it’s time.
months earlier at clearly not this but similarly vacant digs on the sixth floor of another building same sad dingy red brick with busted elevator and well past the violet hour there comes a knocking, and a girl-baby voice outside asserting its affiliation with the local Area Drink and Dine subscription service, and do I eat out much sir? The goddess teaches that it is only in thinking of a key that each confirms a prison, and only at nightfall that whiffs of the unreal city revive for a moment the old dreams of cock and cross. I open the door to a hopeful voice with Titian bangs. And with the idol at my back and in whose bronze slit gestates my hard-won stash, we discuss leaning on the threshold, the benefits of being able to enjoy substantial discounts at my favorite local eateries in collision with the problematic situation of my wallet left downstairs in the car, to which the flame-haired Area Drink and Dine representative expertly counters with: ‘I can wait here while you get it sir.’ I have a closer on my hands, I say with a lump in my throat, and would she like a Mountain Dew while she waits outside in the hall thinking of her bonus instead of running for her life? Outside on the street and below damp-lit foliage the company Datsun is easily ascertained by the Area Drink and Dine (ADD) decals and I scrawl a note either to the team manager or the goddess of cold callers, and slide the note under the wipers in the probable event of the red-head’s delayed return. Back at the apartment into which she has side-stepped squirrel-like to place the can of soda on the coffee table and belatedly assess the presence of nylon rope amongst the fugitive clutter, the area rep’s wrists do require some securing before pulling off her tights and daisy-patterned skirt, cherry lip gloss smeared over smiling bucky beavers in an effort at conflict de-escalation going forward. Big-jugged lady of situations, curved belly akin to the false idol she manoeuvres with kicking soccer-player’s legs into tied hands to bring against my skull with an audible crack of bone. Holding it aloft running screaming naked hysterical, carrying my seed and stash out into the world, innocent as to the open-ended nature of the words on the note no longer pinned beneath the wipers but held rain-splashed between the team manager’s trembling fingers:
‘I’ve got your little girl. Pray for her.’