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Mark McClelland, 07 Feb '13

        I'm trying to put my shoes on. Can't you see that I'm trying to put my shoes on? Then why aren't you just watching, complimenting my exquisite balance? You're calling me names instead, you're jeering at… at me, you're not loving my foot brought up to such lofty heights—my midsection. In not doing so, you are neglecting me, and it's really too bad that I should so readily be neglected.

        For one day in ten you've finally quaked me, made me wonder whether I'm free to behave as I please or not. You've admitted to some fear that we're in deeper than we should be, and you've realized that I'm headed down still further.
        But I've lowered my foot, and I've taken off the silly boots, and I'm willing to just walk out alone, to leave you be, to leave long enough that you might want me back. A day or two. All it'll take is a day or two, I'm sure.
        
        A day or two later, I'm returning, for the first or second time. The second, on the second day, because you were still suspicious on the first, still guarding the goods you're afraid I'm quietly after, deceptively quietly after.
        On the second day you're still turning me away. Is it that powerful that you can't bring it into your house without fear of losing control of it? Are you telling others about it, telling others how sick you felt, how betrayed, when your fleshy bare leg found itself resting on the throb of something more than a snuggle? You were made sick, I know. You were betrayed, and that's why I'm off barefoot, throwing the boots into the river.
        Your house, before long—your pad, your nest—won't even seem like anything to me, I'll have convinced myself that well. When I walk by, it won't be the place that makes me smile prospectively. I'll probably not even lift my head to see it, and you'll close the windows upon seeing me go by. Close the shutters, too, and take the phone off the hook.
        The phone. Is it you perhaps, calling me in from the cold? Am I welcome back again, to nestle beneath your woman's-arm? Oh, I know better, I know better. The communications are clear enough. The sick feeling you got when you realized my shabbily concealed lust isn't going to be gone anytime soon. Even with my boots in the cold November river, you still see me as Man, as despicably intentioned Man.

Comments · 2

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  • Mark McClelland said...

    Second in a series of three. Another stream-of-consciousness freewrite, from when I was about nineteen, at the height of my fondness for surrealism. Trying to capture the turmoil in the mind of a devout, morbidly self-conscious young man when his desires muddy friendship.

    • Posted 5 years ago
  • Shirley Golden said...

    Hi @Mark McClelland, I enjoyed reading this piece. I thought it had a good sense of rhythm to it and the repetitions worked well for the stream-of-consciousness style. You certainly capture the feeling of stifled desire.

    • Posted 5 years ago