MFRH034

"Happy New Year"

"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location by shouting obscenities at the poor family resting their half-chemical, fabric-thin flesh remains on top of the calcium xylophone tubes lying on the bed. The tubes moved, one set rising up, carrying up the layer of skin softly draped over them, the thin, long face occupying a glorious position atop the specter-like outline of the first set - which we shall call a man. Little flaps of flesh on what appeared to be his face seemed to open, revealing gaping holes in the fabric (that we shall call his skin) occupied by nothing except void purple marbles.

"Oh how I played with those marbles as a child," recalled a voice on the radio; the family started throwing up in formation. First, the paper-thin son, then the snot, phlegm covered mass of crumpled white kleenex resting on the table that was once termed a feline. The beam of vomit projecting from its mouth propelling it into the ceiling fan which began spinning, its razor-sharp motion scattering the blankets across the room, suddenly covered by a red die in addition to the aforementioned snot. The fan fell, and found its place as the nose in the gigantic tuberculosis-coloured face resting below, the face of the father, a man with carpet-texture skin and eyes shining with the particular tofu-flavored glow of a decaying omelet.

"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location shouting obscenities at the poor family... the son, arisen to go towards and dismantle the radio collapsed in a heap of old National Geographic magazines, the top one bearing a photograph of strong resemblance to his visage. The chemical fumes rising from the floor, the open vials, the half-open containers, the open casks and bottles were strong enough to lift the dust remaining of the son and father and carry it through the air like spores of a specifically disgusting pathogenic fungus. The cat's remains remained where they were... A man entered the room, his bowler hat resting on top of a mess of brown hair. As the fumes approached his mind he shouted in madness and grabbing the guitar lying on the floor mashed it straight into his head. Still pulsing and throbbing with an outgoing energy of life, he clutched at the metallic strings that had passed through his eyes and were now protruding out of his ear. He felt happy. His briefcase flew open and the gluesticks contained therein spilled and rolled all the way down the staircase.

Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story