Work in progress
This is a drafty draft excerpt from my Nanowrimo project. I'm way behind, but I've been sick and I was traveling. The point is, I've started and who knows where I'll end up:
Phobophobia:
A Novel
By
Jennifer
J. Patterson
November
2015
I am so relieved that the temperature
within this room is I-can-see-my-breath cold. I like it cold. I need it cold. When you spend as much time hopping over Hell’s
bottomless puddles of roaring flames as I have, you tend to acutely hone a sincere
appreciation for air conditioning, global warming, and the occasional
blue-raspberry Icee.
And today, my friends, is an
absolutely perfectly cold day. These pale white arms are simply rejoicing in their
horripilation. Each of the tiny little porcupine hairs is saluting and standing
at attention, puffing up to make this weak human body appear just a little big
bigger and more capable of staving off pesky predators. Here’s a fun bit of trivia about
goose bumps: I bet you didn’t know that the phrase, “Bitten by a Westchester
goose,” was once commonly used by the English in reference to syphilis. The
Westchester Geese were, of course, prostitutes in South London (and who didn’t
love a good gander at those geese, if you know what I mean). Ah, syphilis, how
I do enjoy a good STD every now and again.
You haven’t really lived until you’ve tossed and turned through a
sleepless night of mental anguish, unrelenting itching, and excruciating burning. Satan himself couldn’t have come up with a
better consequence for lustful sin, and he’s actually still a little touchy
about the subject. (Lil’ side note here: If you ever find yourself standing in
front of the Overlord of Hell, I’d suggest not bringing up this tasty piece of
trivia, but it’s great cocktail party speak.)
So, yes, it’s perfectly cold and
still – just like the place in my chest where I often imagine a warm human
heart beating. And here I am wriggling around in this new body, trying it on
like a used and wrinkled tuxedo. I guess
it fits okay. It’s a little saggy for my
taste and oh! so pale. This guy must be allergic to the sun because he doesn’t
have a single sunspot or leathery wrinkle anywhere to be found. Either that or maybe he wears SPF X2000.
I’m getting tired and hungry as this is the THIRD body I've tried on today.
Nobody likes me when I’m hungry - I get all Paul Lynd sortta nasty and
mean. Sigh. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. I used to be able to just hunker down and stay
in one of these humans for as long as I could get away with it.
Once I lived
a whole human adulthood. I’d popped myself right into a 21-year-old guy named
Charlie. Stayed there till he was on his deathbed at age 92. I let him out long enough to say goodbye to
the cruel world who had never even noticed he’d been gone for ?# years –
imprisoned and alone within the confines of his own mind. He tried his best to convince the docs that
he didn’t have dementia (or demontia, if you will), but they just patted him on
the shoulder and increased his morphine (lucky me!). I’m actually quite surprised young
Charlie’s liver made it that long.
I tried my damnedest to pickle that thing in his younger days.
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