Mnemonic
Alexandre Grizzly
" . . . Every writer hates writing. Every good writer, at least. This is a fact. I can prove it by saying that, under the assumption that I am one of the good ones, typing these letters is excruciatingly annoying and bothersome. But I do it because I enjoy the thinking process before the fingers touch the keyboard or the pencil. I only do so in order to remember as best as I can what my idea was in all it's glory, before mutilating and twisting it in order for it to transform into words. The thinking is the most beautiful part behind any great work. Inside my head are the greatest stories ever told, the most ingenious movies ever filmed, the upmost articulate paintings ever created, the best of the best. They are all inside your head as well, reader. However, anytime we try and make those thoughts tangible, we fail. The finished product is nowhere near what was going on inside the creator's head when they began. Van Gogh was bipolar. In his time, he
didn't have medication available to be prescribed to him. I'm sure he envisioned 'A Starry Night' free from the short, choppy brushstrokes that was a result from his disorder. Artists methodically destroy their own dreams by attempting to make them come true, without even trying . . ."
I knew there would be no readers. I stop to let my tired fingers rest, but instead, there's a knock at the door. I opened the drawer to my right and pulled out my pistol and pointed it at the door. The quick and silent maneuver made the ash fall off the end of my Marlboro and onto the floor to create yet another of hundreds of grey cheetah spots littered throughout the carpet.
I ask who it is as I sneak towards the bolted shut, jet black door. I place the open end of the barrel against the black rectangle, aimed at whoever or whatever's behind it. Beside it, I support myself with my free hand as I lean in to see through the tiny glass lens. From behind the peephole, the hallway looks empty, which is normal for any other day. But that was a definite knock, and couldn't be just some noise I heard. Aside from the knock, the room and it's surroundings had been completely silent. Even the dust seemed stagnate in the air. The only movements came from my fingertips from typing and my lips from puffing on my cigarette. I move away from the door backwards, gun lowered, arm, relaxed. I stop after a couple steps and take a deep breath. Maybe it was nothing. Then, a click. The scratching of an opening door. A distant, hushed conversation. It was only the neighbors.
On the way back to my desk, I tell myself to calm down. I tell myself that over and over, methodically destroying the possibility of doing so. I begin to pace in circles, running fingers through my hair, staring at the cheetah-spotted floor.
I bring my vision back up and I'm no longer a paranoid writer in an unkempt loft. Now I am auuhub sophisticated server rolling out dishes encased in multiple silver domes out of a blindingly bright kitchen with yammering cooks scurrying in and out between more cooks. Steam from sauteed foods whisps into the air, curling and eating everything. Clanging of thick dishes and the hollow metal clap sound of pots and pans flood and pound my ears. In front of me, I have no idea what dish is what. I'm wearing bleached white gloves, a maroon vest with black trim with a matching tie and white shoes, white pants, a white belt with a golden buckle, and a black expensive feeling button up, starched collar, with silver circular cuff links, the initials T.M. engraved in the center. On the rolling cart is a white card that says Table 18 in black, shiny, elongated cursive.
I approach a table filled with elegantly sparkling dresses worn by loud drunk women with long praying mantis arms clutching crystal orbs with stems, deep red liquid swirling and twirling around in them. The women are accompanied by smooth, tailor-fitted tuxedos with Prada loafers and glistening diamond cufflinks the width of a rich man's ego and the thickness of the poor man's skin worn by annoyed, silent, extremely drunk men. I begin serving the platters, still in the dark about what was exactly underneath these glaring half spheres made of gleaming authoritative and mysterious silver. As I begin to lift up these domes, instead of food garnished in perfection and luxury, it's Josiah's pistol on top of garlic mashed potatoes surrounded with asparagus and globe carrots, a pistol smothered in soup topped with pico de gallo and chives, a pistol thermador next to a ramekin of melted citrus-olive butter. I look around to the guests immediately in shock and
