Four Hours of Sleep
The alarm was to ring at 8; he was up by 6. He tried to sleep, he couldn’t. Sleep is funny that way. He had to sleep because it would be hours before he could rest again. To travel from 6am to past 2am the day after is to travail screeching pencils violating the space of beautifully white paper or to run up and down and up and down until the crotch reddens itself. No breathing required, just the ever-growing ideals of heredity and passiveness mingling with depravity of a pseudo-perverse mind. Or a totally perverse mind where fetishes move from a psychosomatic superego to a physiologically manifested id that dominates the whole stage. Or alley, for that matter. No more transporation – all the drivers are home, passed out drunk, perhaps, in front of the latest basketball game – and that moves to a gratuitious walk from a to b, happy but tired, ranting and praising. A cold hand passes through his hair and he realizes he needs a haircut. Stat. Stat! Last three days, last few ticks and tocks. The deadline steams forward, like a wall of horrifically enhanced spikes, and nothing more can be done. Except hold. And perhaps sleep some more.
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CARD DRAWN:
FOUR OF SWORDS
THIS IS THE TAROT CHALLENGE, a 78-day writing challenge where everyday I pick out a random card from my tarot deck and write something about, against, inspired by, based on the card by the day’s end. The works can range from poetry to fiction to drama. When the card is from the major arcana, the title of the work should be the card name. When the card is from the minor arcana, the title can be different but the card drawn should be revealed at the end.
