I began tonight (obviously) with no clue what I would write about. After an hour of writing, I'm pretty pleased with Chapter 1, in my yet untitled novel. I'm about halfway done with today's expected goal, and shouldn't have too much trouble for today at least. Comments?
A generous puddle of drool pooled on the leather couch where Carter had passed out several hours earlier. He roused gently to the vibration of his cell phone on the coffee table in front of him. Even the soft blinking bulb on the corner of his phone hurt his eyes. He tripped on his own feet as he rushed from the couch around the end table and to the blinds of the sliding glass doors of his two story house overlooking the beach. His hands did the searching now, his eyes were useless in the in the dim light penetrating through the light cloud coverage outside: it was October.
Once the blinds had been closed, he stumbled clumsily back to the couch where he fell down and landed in his own puddle of drool. With a groan of disgust, Carter lifted his head and wiped it on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Glancing at the clock on the wall, his attention turned to the cell phone on the coffee table that once again began to vibrate.
“Yeah. Whaddya want?” He sounded more annoyed than he had originally intended. The voice on the other end seemed to drone on, becoming increasingly hostile. Carter was paying little attention, however. He instead reached for the worn black journal sitting on the coffee table, right next to where his phone had been vibrating. An expensive desk pen was keeping his page.
With an occasional acknowledgement to the voice on the phone, Carter began feverishly writing on the next blank page in the journal. He started with the title, in large capital letter he scribbled across the top line, “HEDERA HELIX DELTOIDEA”. Underneath he wrote the date (October 14th, 2006), followed simply by, “36 inch bong.”
The pen touched the paper, and it seemed as though Carter was ready to begin his entry, but he paused. “Katie, Katie, stop. We’ve been over this a thousand times; I understand and I appreciate your concern, you know that. We’ve also been over how much this means to me, and you’ve said you’re willing to let me do my business, and right now, I really need to focus and get this all written down before any- Hello? Katie?”
The blinking number on his phone confirmed his suspicion: Katie had hung up again. He was mad, “Every ****ing time!”, but he knew there was work to be done. Carter once again put the pen to the paper, and detailed everything he remembered from hours earlier. It began as many of the entries did, describing the taste of the smoke that bubbled into the long glass pipe and flowed through his mouth and into his lungs.
I tasted a hint of salt, but it was very subtle. On the inhale, there was almost no definable taste. Upon entering the throat, there was a very harsh stinging, much worse than most of the South American stems I have tried before this. The lungs were much more accepting of the smoke, and bearing the tickling in my throat, I was able to hold the smoke in for approximately nine seconds. During exhale, I once again tasted salt, but much more potent here than before. There was also a very earthen taste, what I can best describe as what I would imagine Potpourri would taste like.
Immediately after the hit, my vision blurred. It was a haze similar to the tunnel vision one might get after a large amount of alcohol consumption. I experienced no body high, and my mind was seemingly clear. Besides the obvious worry for my vision, I remained calm and attempted to focus on what I was feeling. After a short amount of time (actual time is unknown, estimated five to ten minutes) my vision blurred further, and my head and eyelids began to feel heavy.
Those are the last feelings I can recall: the last time I looked at the clock it read 12:22 PM. When I awoke from the unconscious state I was in, the clock read 5:18 PM. Estimated “high” time: 8-12 minutes. Time spent incapacitated: approximately five hours.
Carter looked over what he had written, leaned back on his couch and sighed. He breathed in heavily as he stared blankly at the ceiling. After scratching his head, he put the pen to the paper one final time for the day, and at the bottom of the page wrote:
Conclusion: No Potential
Comment