The topic of this month was to write something utilizing at least 3 of the following words: White Noise, Black, Dust, Onion.
All you hear is a mixture of odd echoes. One sounds like an intense screech, one like nails scraping a wall, one like a clash of metal on metal, another reverberates like a drum, one sounds like steady thuds, one a jingle of wind chimes, one sounds like a clatter of porcelain platters, then there’s that steady hum in the background. It’s too distracting, you think, covering your ears with your palms. You’re trying to concentrate, but all you hear is white noise.
This is what its come to, you assume. You can’t even focus anymore. Even if it is something you love doing, you can’t seem to do it. Unknowingly, you release your hands from over your ears, and shut your eyes tightly. You have to do this; you must be able to do it. You decide to go out for a walk; the fresh air will do you good; you convince yourself.
You sit on the porch, holding your fleece jacket, while tying your shoelaces, and end up just sitting there. You keep thinking, you should make a move and go walk, but you don’t. Something is pulling you back. Maybe it’s the noises you keep hearing, constantly buzzing around your head. You close your eyes, see the world go black, and lie down slowly. Maybe this would help in cancelling out the noises.
You open your eyes to see that you’re surrounded by the most random things; some stone sculptures, wooden crates, granite blocks, marble tiles, cement slabs; a collection of misfits, really; just like the noises in your head. You walk through these piles of insignificant things, when you notice that they all look a bit hazy.
You wave your hand to touch the stack of wooden crates, and your hand passes right through. You remove your hand quickly, as if scorched by immense heat, and rub it with your other hand. You try to touch it again, but it passes through once more. You move away from there and walk along the street. Looking down at your black boots crunching the dried leaves below, you smile at the colours of autumn. Your smile fades as you realize that you weren’t wearing boots earlier.
You blink, maybe this is a dream? You breathe in the crisp air one last time; this is all too good to be true. You are now able to pinpoint why this isn’t real- it isn’t autumn, it’s winter; your street looks nothing like this; the colours are too faded; and the white noise is gone. You hear a crack, and you see that everything around you is crumbling.
All the trunks, the sculptures, the blocks; everything is disintegrating into dust.
There’s a sudden gust of wind that blows the dust onto you; you cover your face, and unconsciously, form a fist, trapping some of it in your hand. When you open your eyes, your vision is still black for a few seconds. You open them widely to get a good look of where you are; you’re back on your porch. You shake your head, trying to get rid of the noises, when you see your hand is clenched into a fist. You open it, and its full of grey specks.