E!Morphosis
Published by Caleb on 2009/1/31 (371 reads)
But upon turning back, she finds no sleeping man, she smells no residual Axe.
E!Morphosis
by Caleb J. Ross
When Samantha Gregory woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, she found herself buried beneath her own artifacts. Her shelves, during the night, had buckled by the weight of a 10-year Us Weekly subscription, bookended by the complete first, second, and third seasons of The Hills on DVD and a small army of self-portrait headshots secured within bedazzled frames. The toppled bookshelf planks had creased the magazines and snapped the disks. Her portraits suffered glass shrapnel.
“What will happen to me?” Samantha says to herself. From above, a poster of Ashton Kutcher watches.
Worried, she abides by her morning-after impulse and says “you’ll need to leave,” in the direction of her bed. But upon turning back, she finds no sleeping man, she smells no residual Axe. “Something is wrong,” she says.
She opens the bathroom medicine cabinet for Tylenol but discovers only multi-vitamins and empty space once claimed by hair products. She retreats to her television, hoping for news of a serial burglar. Instead, her TiVo offers C-SPAN Senatorial hearing coverage. She knows the name of the British Prime Minister. The Dow numbers affect her. “I don’t have a portfolio,” she says. “Why do I know what a ‘portfolio’ is?” she speculates further.
She reaches for her cell phone, but finds her pockets empty. “The club,” she says. “Fuck.”
She arrives at RAGES, a dance club where bouncers and faux-hawked Axe-wraiths know her name, to find the outside sign’s neon “e” dark. The spent letter still exists though, and in doing so stands as the lone proof that her life, prior the unsettling dreams of last night, really existed.
She enters. Conversation from seated patrons float, words that would have never broken through the bass of last night’s D.J. These people, they remind Samantha of her grandparents.
“Luger,” she says to the man behind the bar. “Did I leave my phone here last night?”
“Whoa, Sam. You look like hell.”
“I think I woke up there,” she says. “My phone?”
“Sorry.” Luger offers her a seat at the bar. “It’s early, but maybe a drink would even you out.”
The idea of a Cosmo promotes Pavlovian spit from her lip. “Yeah,” she says, is given a brown bottle of something. “Beer,” she says. “Where am I?”
“Keep it down,” Luger says. “People are reading.”
Behind her, a turning page echoes. “Rape,” she yells, an impulse. The patrons’ gaze follows her out the door. A man on the corner asks for change. She fights the urge to search her pockets, disgusted by these thoughts of empathy where pity has for so long resided. “Sorry,” she yells back to the man as she continues to run, chocking back a foreign sincerity.
This world is no longer her familiar system of photo ops. Who looks better in the $5,000 dress? Who could dare own a $5,000 dress?
She resorts to her single reliable news source. But PerezHilton.com redirects to PresidentHillten.org, a site Hillten has created to spearhead efforts to free the Queen of Almedia from a prison of false self-importance. The landing page proclaims “THE QUEEN MAY BE DEAD.”
Samantha falls to her knees in prayer. “Please. Ashton. Reveal yourself. Let me be Punk’d!”
The clouds don’t part. The sun doesn’t divide into rays. Behind her, the homeless man echoes, “change…change….change.”
by Caleb J. Ross
When Samantha Gregory woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, she found herself buried beneath her own artifacts. Her shelves, during the night, had buckled by the weight of a 10-year Us Weekly subscription, bookended by the complete first, second, and third seasons of The Hills on DVD and a small army of self-portrait headshots secured within bedazzled frames. The toppled bookshelf planks had creased the magazines and snapped the disks. Her portraits suffered glass shrapnel.
“What will happen to me?” Samantha says to herself. From above, a poster of Ashton Kutcher watches.
Worried, she abides by her morning-after impulse and says “you’ll need to leave,” in the direction of her bed. But upon turning back, she finds no sleeping man, she smells no residual Axe. “Something is wrong,” she says.
She opens the bathroom medicine cabinet for Tylenol but discovers only multi-vitamins and empty space once claimed by hair products. She retreats to her television, hoping for news of a serial burglar. Instead, her TiVo offers C-SPAN Senatorial hearing coverage. She knows the name of the British Prime Minister. The Dow numbers affect her. “I don’t have a portfolio,” she says. “Why do I know what a ‘portfolio’ is?” she speculates further.
She reaches for her cell phone, but finds her pockets empty. “The club,” she says. “Fuck.”
She arrives at RAGES, a dance club where bouncers and faux-hawked Axe-wraiths know her name, to find the outside sign’s neon “e” dark. The spent letter still exists though, and in doing so stands as the lone proof that her life, prior the unsettling dreams of last night, really existed.
She enters. Conversation from seated patrons float, words that would have never broken through the bass of last night’s D.J. These people, they remind Samantha of her grandparents.
“Luger,” she says to the man behind the bar. “Did I leave my phone here last night?”
“Whoa, Sam. You look like hell.”
“I think I woke up there,” she says. “My phone?”
“Sorry.” Luger offers her a seat at the bar. “It’s early, but maybe a drink would even you out.”
The idea of a Cosmo promotes Pavlovian spit from her lip. “Yeah,” she says, is given a brown bottle of something. “Beer,” she says. “Where am I?”
“Keep it down,” Luger says. “People are reading.”
Behind her, a turning page echoes. “Rape,” she yells, an impulse. The patrons’ gaze follows her out the door. A man on the corner asks for change. She fights the urge to search her pockets, disgusted by these thoughts of empathy where pity has for so long resided. “Sorry,” she yells back to the man as she continues to run, chocking back a foreign sincerity.
This world is no longer her familiar system of photo ops. Who looks better in the $5,000 dress? Who could dare own a $5,000 dress?
She resorts to her single reliable news source. But PerezHilton.com redirects to PresidentHillten.org, a site Hillten has created to spearhead efforts to free the Queen of Almedia from a prison of false self-importance. The landing page proclaims “THE QUEEN MAY BE DEAD.”
Samantha falls to her knees in prayer. “Please. Ashton. Reveal yourself. Let me be Punk’d!”
The clouds don’t part. The sun doesn’t divide into rays. Behind her, the homeless man echoes, “change…change….change.”
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Re: E!Morphosis
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