3rd draft - Colorless, Odorless

Hey friends,

I just finished another drafting of that short story I wrote just b4 school finished. I'd appreciate some feedback to certain elements I added to the story. If you have questions just let me know..... Thanks :-)


Here it goes, just like this:

Colorless, Odorless
By Chris Lindgren

The View blares from the kitchen TV competing with Amy Grant’s distorted voice from the bedroom. Dirty dishes clutter kitchen tops, tables, stained sofa cushions, which complement the litter of soiled clothes throughout the apartment. Crumbs decorate the furniture, particularly the keyboard of the computer that rests on the desk beside the futon.
She sits at the edge of the futon staring at the computer screen. A wave of smoke rises from the plastic bowl cupped in her right hand as her left hand stuffs another Marlboro Red into the wasteland of ash, topped with smothered cigarettes. Her eyes anticipate Twila Paris’ song, Destiny to finish downloading.
Her hand searches for another cigarette, only to find the last pack empty in her breast pocket. She leans back into the futon, setting the cereal bowl on the peak of her belly. Her eyes find the mix of gray and black discoloring the once redness of the bowl. A numbing sense of boredom begins to pulsate in the back of her head. She thinks of Janice’s phone number.
Her butt lifts as she reaches for the cordless phone buried in the right pocket of her sweats. The bowl rolls down the decline of her belly and trips off her crotch onto the carpet.
“Goddamnit!” She pumps herself up, kicking the bowl, stomping her feet into the ashes as the pulsation evolves, ripens, pops into a mature fuzz of rage.
The phone rings. Her back straightens, body springs. “Hello!?”

………

“Oh, hey bro. How ya doing?”

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“Whatchya been up to?”

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“Guess what James.”

…

“Guess what.”

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“How’d you know?”

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“He loves me and I love him. We’re happy. We really are.”

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“Yeah, he makes me happy. I love him.”

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“Oh, okay. I love you.”

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“When can I call you?”

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“Oh, okay. Bye.”
Her thumb thumps the Talk button releasing an abreactive blister, swelling in the back of her mind. This fuzz, this blurry rage leaves her with no upshot, no hints of beginnings and endings, only with the pain of not really feeling. Again, her thumb thumps the Talk button and her thumbs crudely dance across the dial pad, mashing keys with an artful innuendo.

………

“Hi, Janice. How are you?”

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“So, whatchya been up too?”

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“Guess what Janice? I got a new boyfriend! His name’s Mike.”

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“Yeah. He’s so nice to me. He loves me.”

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“Yeah. We’re happy. Are you happy for me?”

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“Oh, thanks. Yeah, we love each other.”

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“Oh, okay. When’s a good time to call you?”
………

“Oh, okay. Bye Janice.”
She stands still within the ashes, staring into the dial pad waiting for the motley sense, the effervescent, shrill feeling of nothing. It always comes and goes, but the unique potion, pill, and self-prescriptive sedative lies within empty words. Once again, her thumbs shoot up the dial pad, absolving any sense of numbness.

………

“Hi honey! How are you?”

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“I miss you. Do you miss me?”

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“Can you come pick me up? I’m ran outta Reds.”

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“But I need more reds. I feel depressed. I need some smokes.”

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“You said you’d pick me up. Don’t you love me?”

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“What’s happening to us dear?”

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“I don’t have anyone. Everyone hates me! I’m going to kill myself. No one will care!”

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“Really, you’ll come over? I love you so much. Do you love me?”

………

“Oh, okay. Bye honey.”
She taps the Talk button and stuffs the cordless back into her pocket. Her feet still nested within the ashes. The computer chimes.
“Twila, you’re done!”
She scurries over to the computer smearing the ashes into the carpet. She scrolls down the screen and right-clicks on Amy Grants, Love of Another Kind and clicks the command for its transfer, then clicks the command for Destiny to begin.
She walks back over to the pile, picks up the bowl and sits back down at the computer. She pulls out her lighter and pulls out a butt from the ashes. Her lips wrap around what’s left of the cigarette as she takes a drag. The red tip of the Marlboro fades back into the inevitable gray. She cups the bowl in her hand and sits at the edge of the futon, grabbing the next butt within the bowl. In between drags, she sings her song, all the while staring at the computer screen; waiting.