Conceptual Compost

Singing the Body Eclectic

2010-07-19T22:51:00.039-06:00

She wasn't wearing a bra. Rodney was certain of that. At least not any sort of conventional brassiere he was aware of. He was in no way an expert in women's lingerie, and was quite open to the possibility of great technical strides in the field of mammary support, but the way the thin cotton t-shirt clung to every conceivable contour, he couldn't imagine anything existing between shirt and skin.

Catching himself with this thought, Rodney immediately felt his cheeks burn with shame and darted his head behind the newspaper he held in his hands. The quick movement caused the stiff paper to crumple far louder than Rodney would've liked. He froze, horrifyingly self-aware. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, attempting to calm his racing heart. Eyes still closed, he assured himself he had done nothing wrong. He was a good man, perhaps a little lonely, but by no means a pervert. He had only made the most casual of observations about another human being. That was all. Well, maybe he should have averted his eyes more quickly, but letting the guilt from what was undoubtedly an innocent glance cause such panic was ridiculous. He exhaled; long and slow, and opened his eyes.

The newspaper before him was an incomprehensible sea of blurry grey. He blinked repeatedly, attempting to clear his vision, with no success. A cold lump rose in Rodney's chest. He awkwardly cleared his throat and began to surreptitiously glance out from behind the safety of his paper to survey the coffee shop. If any of the other patrons had noticed his little episode, they showed no sign of it.

Looking from table to table, Rodney saw a variety of people talking amongst themselves or silently reading. His eyes passed over an elderly Asian couple, an athletic man perusing a cycling magazine, and a huddled group of giggling teenagers all before he found himself staring directly at the initial cause of his jittery behavior.

She sat between two friends, engaged in what appeared to be a light-hearted conversation. In her mid-twenties, she had short mousy hair and a relatively pleasant face. She appeared to be of average build, not overweight and not thin. She was decidedly common. Even forgettable, were it not for the one glaring exception. Unconsciously Rodney lowered the paper for an unobstructed view. Any fear or shame he felt only moments ago had vanished. They were the only things on his mind.

This was completely out of character for Rodney. Never a ladies man, he had been in a few relationships. Intimate Relationships. He was not prudish or blindly driven by libido. He appreciated the inherent beauty of the female form, but felt no desire for pornography. In the sweltering summer months, when young girls paraded about in bikinis and shorts that explicitly defined the term, Rodney far preferred reading a cheap sci-fi paperback to ogling. However, at this moment, he was utterly transfixed by these breasts.

They were not gargantuan, or even large. It was the odd, one could even say bizarre shape that made them so unique. Plunging down from the woman's neck, her breasts held fast to her chest, nearly to the point of nonexistence. They then made an abrupt jump violently outward and upward, forming a practically acute arc which culminated in rather large, angular nipples. In contrast, the underside of each breast appeared to create an almost perfect circle, the epitome of a gentle curve.

Rodney's mind raced as he took in every detail. He was inexplicably drawn to these breasts, intrigued by these breasts, both aroused and repulsed by these breasts. They were simultaneously the most perfect and most hideous pair of breasts in existence. He couldn't comprehend why every eye in the room wasn't glued to them just as his were. And how could this woman display them with such disregard for those around her? Wearing such a tight shirt and no bra, did she not know their power? Or was she willfully flaunting them, daring people to stare; to become hypnotized?

Whatever her motivation, this woman seemed genuinely oblivious to Rodney's intense gaze. She carried on, now talking animatedly, relating some amusing anecdote or describing a particularly memorable scene from a favourite movie. As she spoke, she made exaggerated hand gestures and leaned dramatically back in her chair. Rodney watched as her breasts moved, or did not, in relation to the rest of her body. He tilted his head slightly and furrowed his brow, as if confused why the complete understanding of all breasts could so easily elude him.

The woman finished her story and her friends erupted in laughter. She pitched forward, briefly obscuring Rodney's view, and pushed herself up to her feet with a confident smile. The friend to her left gave the woman a teasing slap on the back and shook his head with amused disbelief. Before he realized what was happening, Rodney watched as this woman, and the mystery that accompanied her, waved farewell to her friends and strode out the door.

Rodney's mouth fell open in silent protest. He instinctively rose up in his chair as if to follow her before thinking better of it and slumping back down. She was gone. They were gone. He felt cold and hollow. He had been given a short-lived glimpse into the realm of the inconceivable, and it had passed all too quickly. He let out a despondent sigh, closed his eyes, and rested his head in his hands.

He slowly massaged his temples, attempting to soothe himself back to reality. It was silly, absurd, even embarrassing, what he had just done. To be so enraptured by a pair of bosoms as to consider, however briefly, following a stranger Lord knows where. Totally shameful. Rodney laughed to himself without humor. He was not that type of man. It was a fluke, a one-time anomaly that would never, could never, happen again.

"Excuse me," said a man's voice, breaking Rodney's concentration. "Are you done with that paper?"

"Sure, go ahead," Rodney managed to mumble, as he parted his hands and opened his eyes. From his vantage point he saw across the surface of the table, following the newspaper as it was pulled towards the unknown voice. The man successfully retrieved the outspread paper and began folding it into a more manageable size. Rodney was too embarrassed to look the man in the eye, so instead he looked only at the man's midsection, most of which was now concealed by the rapidly moving newspaper.

The man finally was able to get the unruly paper under control and Rodney's eyes followed as it was swiftly tucked under the man's arm, alongside a glossy magazine. Turning his gaze back to center, Rodney found himself eye level to the man's groin. The man wore bright orange spandex bicycle shorts which clung to him tight as a second skin.

"Thanks," the man said, turning away.

Rodney's breath caught in his throat, and his jaw dropped. As the cyclist ambled out the door, Rodney remained motionless, save for his right hand, which reached out almost imperceptibly.

Author's Note:
I don't know what to say about this one... Let's just say bodies are weird. And Julianne Moore is naked in a lot of movies.

Something

2010-02-03T14:37:00.002-07:00

For months I've had ideas. None have been brilliant, but some approached what might at least be considered fairly decent. However, nothing has yet to come of them. I'm not sure quite why, though I could theorize and rationalize all sorts of reasons. Sometimes it simply seems like it's hard to start when you know where you want to go.

For months I've also told myself that I was going to write or create something. It didn't matter what, as long as I did it. Still, nothing came of that either. Until today. Officially this, right now, these words strewn together with little or no thought, with hopefully at least some semblance of correct grammar and punctuation, by God is something. It is not profound, not clever, or even vaguely interesting. But it is something. And everything starts with something. Right?

Starts or ends. Only time will tell.

Before I Wake

2009-11-06T10:33:00.003-07:00

Kevin felt the floor shake beneath his slippered feet as a staccato stream of gunfire shattered the evening stillness. There was a moments pause, broken by a blood-curdling scream, and the shots resumed full force. Kevin let out an exasperated sigh, threw his head back, and stomped his foot hard on the floor. “Dad!” he yelled, drawing out the word and injecting it with all the whining insistence his seven-year-old voice could muster. In response, the sounds of violence faded slowly, blending into the normal background noises associated with any home.

Satisfied, Kevin pulled the small stepping stool out from under the sink and climbed up to grab his toothbrush. He knew it wouldn't be long before he'd be able to reach everything without the stool, but he didn't mind using it. He'd only recently began putting himself to bed and he enjoyed the new responsibility, but he wasn't eager to grow up too fast. He finished brushing his teeth and filled a small paper cup with bright green mouthwash. It was so painfully minty that Kevin's eyes watered nearly every time he used it, but it was worth it to hear the throaty animal noises he made when he gargled. Spitting out the mouthwash, he jumped from the stool, pushed it carefully back under the sink, shut off the light, and walked across the hall into his bedroom.

Kevin made sure the majority of his toys were tucked away safely and knelt down beside his bed. He'd said his prayers every night for as long as he could remember without giving it much thought. He repeated the same archaic four lines his mother had taught him, not knowing exactly what it all meant, but knowing it was a standard part of his nightly routine. After a mumbled “Amen,” Kevin stood up, kicked off his slippers, and crawled in bed beneath his favorite dinosaur blanket.

No sooner had he settled himself and closed his eyes when he heard a faint chuckle. Startled, Kevin sat up and quickly turned towards the sound. He was no longer alone. In the pale glow of his night-light, Kevin now saw a man sitting casually on the floor holding one of his sneakers. The man wore a spotless white robe and his face was obscured by shoulder-length auburn hair. Giggling softly, the man was shaking the shoe and watching in awe as tiny red lights flickered in the heel.

“Nice shoes!” the man said excitedly, without so much as a glance in Kevin's direction. Terrified by the man's unexplained appearance, Kevin remained motionless. “I've had these for ages,” the man said as he nodded towards his own, sandaled feet. “I can't complain. They're pretty comfortable, but not nearly this... this exciting!” In spite of his fear, Kevin instinctively looked at the man's sandals. With their worn leather straps and thin leather soles, they were just like what gladiators wore in the movies. The same gladiators that had swords, wore helmets, and fought lions. To Kevin that made the simple-looking sandals very exciting.

“I wonder what they'll think of next,” the man said bemusedly, tossing the shoe into the corner where it rolled next to its mate. He seemed perfectly comfortable, not at all concerned with the fact that no trace of him existed in the room only moments ago. In fact, he appeared merely curious, surveying the posters, toys, and books about the room. As the man turned his head to look around, Kevin caught a quick glimpse of his face. It was surprisingly familiar. With its short, cropped beard, and deep, intense eyes, Kevin had seen this face nearly everyday of his life. It stared back at him from the cheap, reproduction painting hanging over the fireplace, it looked down reprovingly from the porcelain collector's plate in the dining room, and he swore he'd even seen it on one of his grandmother's sweat-shirts. With this vague familiarity, suddenly Kevin wasn't quite as scared.

Confusion quickly took the place of his fear. Where had this man come from? And why was he in his bedroom? “Excuse me,” Kevin managed to squeak, nervously gripping his blanket tight to his chest.

“Yes?” the man said, casually looking up from the LEGO pirate ship he now held.

“Umm, well, I was just wondering why you're in my room.” Kevin asked sheepishly.

“I've just got a little business to take care of,” the man replied with a disinterested tone, returning his gaze to the ship and beginning to fidget with the small plastic cannon on its deck.

“My Dad knows lots about business stuff!” Kevin said helpfully. “He's downstairs, you wanna talk to him?”

“Not this time,” the man said with detached finality. He discarded the pirate ship and caught sight of Kevin's box of crayons. His eyes lit up and he began to scoot crablike across the floor towards them. Reverently, he opened the box and slowly scanned all 64 colors before delicately extracting 'Periwinkle' and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Don't you just love these things?” the man asked as he brought the crayon up to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. “I can never seem to get enough of em. Even the smell. Do you mind?” he gestured towards a battered coloring book laying on the floor a few feet from where he sat.

Dumbfounded, Kevin shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“Thanks!” the man said excitedly. “I wish they'd had these when I was a kid!”

Kevin watched with amused interest as the man methodically flipped through the pages, searching for the perfect image to color. Kevin had never seen a grown-up get so excited about coloring. It was normal for kids to get excited, but adults always seemed to think they were too old for things like that. Kevin knew that he'd never be too old for anything he loved, and he certainly loved his crayons. Like the man, he even enjoyed their waxy scent, (a fact he'd been too embarrassed to ever admit to anyone.)

On the floor it appeared that the man had made a decision as he was now hard at work coloring. He hunched forward over the open pages, completely engrossed in the task before him. Though his pale hand moved free and frantic over the paper, it seemed at the same time that every stroke and new color choice were painfully deliberate. It was mesmerizing to watch. Kevin had never seen anyone color so intensely.

As he watched, Kevin almost forgot just how bizarre this situation really was. Snapping back to reality, he realized he should try to find out more about the reason behind the man's presence. “So, you said you're here for business,” Kevin began. “What kind of business is it? Can I help?”

“Oh, it's nothing to worry about, easiest thing in the world,” the man replied, not tearing his focus away from the coloring book for a moment. “All you really need to do is get some sleep.”

Kevin laid back, still very confused, but not knowing what to do next. The man obviously was too distracted to carry on a decent conversation, but he wasn't hurting anything, and Kevin knew his dad was just downstairs if he needed him. Maybe he would try to get some sleep. In the morning, he was sure his dad would explain the whole strange occurrence to him over breakfast. Closing his eyes, Kevin focused on the sound the crayon made against paper. There was a soothing gentleness to that sound. Comforting, not unlike waves crashing on the shore. Kevin loved that sound. A calm, peaceful smile crept across Kevin's face as he drifted to sleep.

That smile never left Kevin. Not in the morning when his father screamed, shaking his shoulders violently in a desperate attempt to wake him. Not when the paramedics sent the electric charge coursing through his chest, causing his arms to flop almost comically at his sides. The smile remained. Even days later, when Kevin lay before his tearful relatives and friends, the same calm smile was upon his lips. When the satin-lined lid was closed and he was lowered into the ground, Kevin wore a brand new navy blue suit and that smile.

*******

It was days before Kevin's father had the courage to enter Kevin's bedroom. And weeks, or even months before he dared touch anything. He brought a large cardboard box and a roll of packing tape when he finally began the daunting task of organizing Kevin's belongings. Books and toys were thrown haphazardly into the box. He didn't want to spend any more time in the room than was absolutely necessary. As the box filled and the room emptied, Kevin's father reached under the bed, and pulled out a few stray LEGOs and a coloring book.

The book still bore the partial boot print of one of the hasty paramedics. Undoubtedly it had been kicked under the bed in the chaos of that fateful morning. He stared for a moment at the cover and sighed, tears beginning to well up in the corners of his eyes. As he began to weep in earnest, he flung the book into the open box, it falling open to its last-used page. A shocking rectangle of color now stared up from atop the discarded pile of painful memories.

The original, printed image was that of a smiling cartoon unicorn, standing in a meadow under the arc of a large rainbow. However, that was now barely visible beneath the layers and layers of color that filled the page to every border. It was as if every possible crayon had been used. Bright, swirling colors pulsed and undulated in graceful patterns across the paper. Within the composition there were also areas of ominous darkness and shadow. The resulting effect was both staggeringly beautiful and unbelievably disturbing. Had his vision not been clouded by tears, Kevin's father certainly would've stopped to look more closely. As it was, he barely registered the fact that there was something colorful in the box before he folded it shut and brought a line of tape down over the seam.

Still crying, now uncontrollably, he carried the sealed box down the stairs and out to the garage. Tucking it in a corner beneath a plastic tote labeled 'X-mas Stuff,' he wiped his wet eyes with the back of his dusty hand and headed back into the house. He knew the box could never be thrown away. He also knew that he may never have the strength to open it again.

Author's Note:
This story changed a lot as I wrote it, and it may still change. But, one thing that won't change is the image of Christ sniffing a Periwinkle crayon, because I think that's just inherently awesome.

Meltdown

2009-07-22T22:34:00.023-06:00

Some days the sun is a cruel, vindictive bastard. It is fully aware that life is not possible without its existence, and, not altogether pleased with the burden of this responsibility, it often decides to make every living thing suffer mercilessly. At least that was the conclusion Bob had reached on this particular July afternoon. Record high temperatures had been the norm throughout the month, and today was no exception. As Bob sat, baking on the bus stop bench, he cursed himself for being so remarkably stupid.

For most of the week Bob had avoided leaving his air-conditioned apartment for any reason, surviving solely upon Popsicles and microwave popcorn. However, tomorrow was his sister Margaret's birthday, and as usual, he had avoided getting her anything until the very last minute. Rather than planning ahead and ordering a book or CD from the climate-controlled comfort of his computer chair weeks ago, he'd put it off. For this reason he now found himself waiting for the 2:15 bus to whisk him off to the outlet mall near the interstate.

He'd been sitting on the bench for only about five minutes, but it had felt like an eternity. Not a single cloud stood between him and the terrible heat of the midday sun. As he waited, the only thing that could even begin to take his mind off of the heat was a endless recounting of all the ways his idiocy had contributed to his current suffering. He was stupid for choosing public transportation over owning a vehicle. He was stupid for not getting this silly shopping out of the way weeks ago. He was stupid for convincing himself that he had to buy his sister a present. He was stupid for choosing to live in an town that wasn't covered in snow ten months out of the year. And right now he was incredibly stupid for thinking that the 2:15 bus would actually arrive at 2:15.

Bob paused in the midst of his internal flagellation to wipe the sweat from off his forehead. As he brushed his now damp palm upon the leg of his pants, it dawned on him that he was also stupid for not owning a single pair of shorts. He could feel the dripping perspiration soaking into his shirt and causing the moist fabric to cling unflatteringly to his rotund physique. He wasn't built for heat. He was built to take optimal advantage of overstuffed furniture. Not morbidly obese, but certainly possessing what could more readily be considered breasts than pecs.

As a man of girth, Bob had grown accustomed to his body's overproduction of sweat. But today, in this heat, it was beyond anything he could remember. Not only was the sweat pouring down his face, his arms and his back, he could feel it literally running out his ears. He never once recalled his ears sweating. This was just plain weird. Bob let out an annoyed sigh and raised his hand to clear the moisture from his ear canal. Gently wiggling his little finger just inside his ear, he felt a sharp pulse shoot through his head. Shocked, he jerked his hand back to see that there was now a pale grey strand of viscous material trailing from off of his fingertip back towards his ear.

Bob screamed and jumped to his feet. One end of this strange substance, having the general consistency of discarded chewing gum on hot asphalt, was firmly stuck to his little finger. The other end (presumably there was another end) originated from somewhere within his right ear. He stood still, eyes wide with shock and fear. As he stared at this strange sight, he could see the strand begin to stretch and droop down from his outstretched hand. Acting on sheer instinct, Bob frantically swung his wrist, wrapping the stringy, sticky material round and round his hand. The more he spun his wrist, the more rapidly it oozed out of him. It wouldn't stop. He began to shake slightly and felt his legs starting to grow numb.

Bob rapidly scanned the surrounding area for another person, someone who might know what to do, but saw no one. The street was clear of all traffic. He wanted desperately to run back to his apartment where he could call for help, but his legs refused to move. The numbness had risen to his waist. Turning his head to the left, his eye caught a glimpse of a grey blob slowly growing on his shoulder. It was now coming out of both ears. He clutched at the mass with his free hand and immediately felt it adhere to him. Webs formed between his fingers, and threads remained connected to his shirt as more still flowed from both sides of his head.

It was happening so fast that Bob hardly noticed a growing awareness outside of himself. While it seemed as if his body was progressively shutting down, Bob could almost perceive it from another point of view. All sound had ceased and his vision was fading rapidly, yet he was somehow still aware of everything surrounding him. He could no longer feel the sensation of sun on skin, though was acutely aware of oppressive heat in a way he'd never quite experienced anything before.

Now literally blind, in a frenzy Bob clawed simultaneously at both ears. He could feel his breath weaken, and the beat of his heart becoming erratic. The numbness had spread up his chest and was moving down the length of his arms. But he still could not escape the maddening heat. It surrounded and overwhelmed his entire being, overshadowing all but the most basic of thoughts. His arms moving jerkily, hands now full of this incomprehensible grey matter, Bob knew only that this, whatever it was, had come from within him, and he felt a powerful urge to put it back.

With all of his remaining will, he spread his jaws wide and thrust as much of the glutinous mound as he could into his gaping mouth. For the briefest of moments, Bob was conscious of the fine pebbly texture of his tongue and the smooth enamel that coated every nook and cranny of his molars. With cheeks bursting, Bob closed his mouth and swallowed hard. Thin, grey strands stretched from his lips as his arms fell limp to his sides. Eyes rolling back in his head, Bob's body slumped forward lifelessly and collapsed into the gutter. A sickening "crack" filled the air as his nose hit pavement. Bob's blood, grotesquely bright in the incessant sun, flowed no more when the 2:15 bus, arriving a scant 10 minutes behind schedule, creaked opened its doors above his prone body.

**********************

It was dark. He could sense no light whatsoever. It was dark and Bob was confined. All around him was moist and resilient. He hadn't known how long he'd blacked out, or what had happened to him. His recent memories were lost. All he was aware of was his present situation. He was in a dark, moist place and it still felt hot. Adding to the feeling of heat was a subtle, stinging sensation. Occasionally he felt everything around him jostle or spasm. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, just unexpected. Though unaware of anything beyond the elasticity of his enclosure, he somehow was experiencing motion. He himself, his whole world, was being moved.

With no sense of time, Bob had no idea how long it was that he had been moving. He only knew that now everything was still once again. Everything was still and perfectly quiet. The stinging, burning sensation remained all around him, but now he also felt something new. Something new and wonderful. He didn't care why, he didn't care how, he only cared that at last, after so dreadfully long, the heat was finally gone. Bob was actually beginning to feel cold.

Author's Note:
What can I say? I don't like it when it's hot.

What You've Got 'Til It's Gone

2009-07-16T22:08:00.001-06:00

It had been days since his last bowel movement. Six days since he began counting, but he wasn't quite sure how many days there had been before he thought to keep track. At first he didn't really notice. Nothing felt different, and he had just enough going on in his life that that one detail was easily overlooked. In hindsight, he may have been slightly aware of an increase in free time, but it was so negligible that he didn't give it a second thought. But, ever since that fateful moment six days ago when the realization finally hit, it was all he could think about.

He knew it was odd that days had passed without him being aware that he had stopped using the stalls at work. Or that he couldn't recall exactly when the last time had been when he enjoyed leisurely leafing through People magazine while his posterior bade farewell to a past meal. The reason he hadn't noticed was that everything still felt so normal. That was the strangest thing. In actuality there were a great many strange things about his predicament, but the lack of any physical discomfort was certainly high on the list.

Though he had never excelled in biology, he was quite aware of the rudimentary mechanisms involved in human digestion. Even independent of these physiological processes, like most individuals over the age of three, he had realized that things didn't simply disappear. Something that you put into your mouth and swallowed had to go somewhere. Though, for the life of him, he couldn't see where.

It wasn't as if he had stopped eating. Far from it. For the last six days, in addition to his regular meals, his body had become a virtual dumping ground for vast quantities of fiber, roughage, and laxatives; both FDA-approved and "experimental." He had tried the capsules, the "chocolate" flavoured bars, and canisters of the grainy powder that's supposed to dissolve in water. All of which promised "guaranteed results." None delivered. Neither did the Castor oil, the Milk of Magnesia, or the Pepto. It wasn't until day four, in a fit of desperation, that he had given in and begun to try treatments that weren't designed to be swallowed.

While it hadn't specifically been a goal, he had hoped to live a full life without ever finding himself in a position to purchase an enema, let alone use one. However, after running through three boxes of "gentle glide" suppositories, his options were limited. Not even the frighteningly large, crumbly number from the box with Chinese instructions and a smiling toilet on the label had produced as much as a fart. So it was that he found himself in his bathtub, naked, on his hands and knees, emptying 20 ounces of God-knows-what into a place he vowed to never again take for granted.

The liquid from the enema bottle, like the suppositories, the medications, and all the food, were never seen again. It had been uncomfortable for a few moments, but when he sat eagerly on the porcelain, hoping to hear the long-awaited splash, nothing happened. No manner of straining, labored breathing, or pressure on his abdomen made any sort of difference. The depression, which had been previously kept at bay by the overwhelming fear and shock, now came on full-force.

He hadn't been to work since day two of his ordeal, and had no contact with friends or relatives. While he wanted greatly to speak to someone, anyone about his problem, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was too strange, too embarrassing, to mention. Even seeing a doctor was out of the question. He knew a doctor wouldn't believe him if he told of how long it had been. Even if they did believe him, he would be no doubt be subjected to a plethora of degrading tests, none of which he believed would accomplish anything. Either that, or since he wasn't experiencing any detrimental physical side effects, he would be dismissed as a simple human oddity and sent on his way. This was something he had to deal with alone.

As the sun rose on day six, he refused to get out of bed. He still felt no pain, pressure, or discomfort. He had been ingesting an abundance of strange foods and a wide variety of chemicals for five full days, and physically he felt no different than he had on day one. In spite of his body's bizarre retention of everything he had digested or inserted, he hadn't gained an ounce. If anything, the stress over his repeated failed attempts had caused him to lose weight. Ironically, it was hunger that eventually propelled him out of bed.

As he sat at his kitchen table that afternoon, languidly chewing a peanut butter sandwich, a final, last-ditch ploy came to him. If there was nothing that man could do to help him, he would turn to God. Never a religious man, a faint glimmer of hope burned within him. He set down his half-eaten sandwich and knelt on the tile floor. With hands clasped tightly in front of his face, he began to pray.

He poured his soul into that prayer, begging Jesus himself to come down to Earth and loose his bowels. He pleaded with the Almighty, promising the Lord anything and everything if he could just be granted this one request. He declared that not a day would go by that he wouldn't start and end with prayer. He would diligently go to church every Sunday, donate all of his excess income, and volunteer at the local soup kitchen. Not only that, he solemnly pledged that he would never again let a blasphemous word pass his lips, or an unclean thought dwell within his mind. He would dedicate the rest of his life to God. His existence would be chaste and holy.

As he ended his prayer, tears streamed down his face. He slowly rose to his feet, and sighed a great, heavy sigh. With what he hoped was confidence, he brushed the few crumbs from his shirt and embarked upon the walk down the hall of his apartment towards his open bathroom door, and the destiny that awaited therein.

Author's Note:
This is a very rough draft, and in no way should be considered complete, or taken seriously. I wrote this in one sitting, at work, with little or no thought as to what I was writing. I had been trying to write something else, something I have actually put thought into, but it hasn't come easily. So, I thought I would just sit down and type whatever nonsense came into my head, just to write something, (and to avoid actually working.) I guess the idea came from the thought that I couldn't write shit. So I challenged that thought and wrote just that. I must say, it seems somehow fitting that the first thing I posted on a blog with "compost" in the title has to do with excrement...