And I was sitting on the toilet, in modern day, in present day. Disregard my conjunctions today, they help me function. So there I was, scanning Craigslist for the perfect part-time job, for clearly writing isn’t my ticket out. Scrolling the pages I hunched over, hand on bearded cheek with eyes drifting away.
I went away to my vehicle of all wonderful places to have been imagined. In the ’03 I cruised. The music was on and I was off. I was driving down a regular road, a 40 m.p.h. road, when the thought hit me; to hit me, myself. The large pine tree I was driving ever so closely to. I was hunting it, to eradicate myself. It was Spring time, bear in mind; it is not relevant though, so please, disregard that last line.
I glided off the road, half onto the grass, wondering what the impact would feel like. If it would be a good idea or not. I knew I wasn’t cut out to find a new job, did not have the mental stability, and yet. I was numb, but there were some primal instincts which refused to flitter off. I went back and forth, left and right, veering over grass and pavement, trying to decide my fate.
I envisioned hitting the tree at 40, air bags smashing into my face, seatbelt leaving a bruise. I figured a broken nose was the worst I would face and that was comforting, for I did not want to die; that would be crazy. I did however, want to feel the impact I had always dreamed of, thought of, silently schemed of, anyways.
I veered off at the last moment, because you are either suicidal or a pussy. I am the latter, and attention seeking; a pretentious writer in need of a dollar and a new dream.
This story could continue, I could tell you how the car in my dream received a flat tire, how the small town cops flashed their lights and I drove home instead, knowing I wasn’t inebriated, only intoxicatingly self-loathing, and so me and the cops fixed my flat before they arrested me, deemed me a danger to myself and others, sent me to a mental hospital, most likely McLean, for I know no other, and, possibly, wrote of my adventures there…?
But honestly, when sitting in the heated bathroom and looking for a job on craigslist. You lose the desire to write about what-if’s, when my dream is fleeting before my eyes.
Maybe next time.
Daniel N. Flanagan is a Worcester, MA native. His longest publication is the short story “Daddy’s Girl”, located in “The Round Up Zine”. He has previously been featured in the publishing blog “Aberration Labyrinth” for his poem “Writer”. And has also had three poems (“An Artist’s Rendering”, “N.O. Xplode”, and “Kip”) in Framingham State Universities literary magazine “The Onyx”. He is currently finishing a novella comprised mainly of short stories, supplemented with poetry. He is a college student and spends his free time writing and exercising.