Category Archives: Fiction

Imaginary Man: Archived Pg. #147

Imaginary Man

“Yes, papa I get it. I most definitely understand the deep, misunderstood turmoil that you’re in right now. But you have to understand that Blake and I aren’t in the position or geographic location to pick up a 6-pack of Coors for you. There is one thing you can do for us while you’re on the phone with us though. Get on the computer in the family room and Google this:

How to get blood off of carpet.”

Yes, everything I hated to see hit the fan is flying. I’m, surprisingly, paranoid. I can’t believe that I feel this way. I thank the gods of luck that beer bottle glass shards aren’t making their way to the brain of this idiot. I can’t grab another towel right now. I just need to sit. We’ve done more than enough to this poor motel already.

I just don’t understand what caused objects to fly.

Blake often times chooses just the right words.

“Clive, you are a wretched bastard of a brother to watch me get snuffed for a whole two minutes before stepping in and punching air like you did.”

Blake often times chooses just the wrong times to say those words. Especially when the only person who can apply pressure to his ketchup-leaking head – due to his hands being filled with glass – is the man he is ungratefully insulting. Maybe he has his hearing back so I can knock some sense into his head.

“Everyone at the bar hates you, and you deserve it. Your problem is that you didn’t care about the affairs of the man sitting on your right; you will step on whoever you need to and tear down anyone who is in your way just to get what you want. You’re so enslaved to this future you’ve painted in your head that you don’t even realize the decisions that you make anymore.

Why did you even ask me to be your right hand? Did you really need someone to share words with you so that you could push them behind you? I don’t understand the point of admitting complete error if you have no plans of changing your course of action.”

I wonder what book he’s reading lately. It’s certainly not the book he was reading when he had conversations with me a year ago. I commended him for his passion and chase when we left our city. But tonight could not have been inspired by the same Blake that I’ve known. He must not be reading as much as he did before. He must’ve lost his goal.

There’s but so much I can do to help if that’s the case.


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Imaginary Man: Archived Pg. #102

Imaginary Man

I’m not exactly sure why I constantly have to remind Blake to relax when we’re not home. It’s been over two decades of the same thing. And this is only the noise on the inside. It honestly doesn’t matter where we go; the profuse tapping of the rain on these rusty motel bearings continues to follow. This is stop No. 4 of Lord-knows-how-many stops we will be making. All I knows is that I’m running out of socks. We haven’t passed a laundromat for miles.

Tonight feels like the same frigid night I stood in when we first took off from our city. Though it has gotten to the point where I’ve lost all sense of time, I’m still flummoxed by the fact that we have made it this far. The first night took us to a motel like this one: large red neon arrow, bulletin sign with backwards letters, honeycomb room key, withered ornate wallpaper, two – it’s the worst when there’s one – beds, and an emotional drive that won’t give in.

I’m not sure why I left the comfort of the office to join Blake in this.

I…don’t know why I changed my mind. I’m not the type of guy who walks around with a fickle heart beating in his chest.

That night though, something changed within me. Nothing supernatural; it could have easily been something that had already been festering there. All I knew was that Blake was my own blood, he had a passion, and I’m typically fresh out of those.

Maybe I can make something out of this empty-container-of-a-soul.

“Clive, was your toothbrush the blue or pink one? I’m having a tough time remembering much from last night.”

What are we? In college? When was the last time I heard a line like that? And how could he forget what color toothbrush he has after attempting to instigate a game of rock-paper-scissors with me over using the blue one? I’m not the type of man who cares which color. Because of this, Blake has to poke at my manhood to get me to pretend that we care about the same things. I’m above stuff like that.

“Blake, you lost and had the pink one.”

Okay. He pushed me, so I didn’t hold back.

I’m too tired to review for good time’s sake why Blake decided to leave, but what I knew when I looked at his face was that he was looking for something. He was always searching for a person or a moment or maybe even just the right day. I knew that gifts acquaintances bought him for Christmas never quite did it for more than a month. I don’t understand this, because for me, some new music on my iPod and a hot girlfriend can potentially set me over for life. But one year, Blake just started moving around a lot, meeting new people, trying new things. He didn’t necessarily become more extroverted. Despite how loud he could yell, he was still a little boy on the inside. But I knew he wasn’t satisfied as easy as most little boys are. No matter where he went, whenever I called him, he was at a local library, reading God-knows-what: he never tells me.

I feel like he’s looking for someone or something that brings life to the pages that he’s been reading.

Yeah, I definitely don’t know why the hell I’m still here. The morning will tell me two things:

1. Me and this little boy cannot continue playing asinine games.
2. For whatever reason, from this child, I’ve truly got a lot of growing to do.

Time to commit to a channel on this television and wait until tomorrow.

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