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Informacion.
- Topher Mith
- St. Charles, Missouri, United States
- Hello, I'm Chris Smith, or Topher if you would prefer it. I'm a student, drummer and dad. I love music and am attempting to write more (literary).
Followers
My Music Links
My Inspiration
Writings.
--
It had been nearly three weeks since the accident--the accident that will never leave Edwin Baxter’s mind. Nor will the guilt lighten that so heavily consumes him. He hasn’t slept a night since the accident, and sleep deprivation takes its toll on him. He cannot even hold his food down.
“I can’t believe I drove off. How could I have done something so horrible.”Edwin mumbleed to himself.
Entering the bathroom, he kneels over the toilet which has become a daily ritual for Edwin. It is in this position where he throws all of his self-frustration and guilt. Throwing it all up from the deepest pit of his stomach.
“They’re coming for you, Edwin. They’ll be here shortly wailing their flashy, car-lights.”
“W-what the hell… Who are you!?”
The voice seemed to be emanating from the bathroom mirror.
“Hello!?” Edwin yelled desperately, in his decrepit bathroom.
“A-har….har….har…”
He arose to his feet and walked sluggishly to the crooked mirror hanging on his wall. Then he saw him, the man who was speaking. The mirror revealed a twisted form of his own face, one whose two eyes were twisted desolate, black sockets--his mouth completely deprived of teeth, and his skin gray like a cadaver.
“They saw you, Edwin. Watched as you ran that poor girl down, listened as you squealed your tires away.”
“I-it was an accident, she sprang from nowhere, I was frightened, I didn’t know what to do.”
“None of it matters anymore, sport. The knocking will begin momentarily.”
“No, no shut up, you shut that fucking face of yours!”
“Your mouth is spilling ingested lies!”
“It will all be over soon, Edwin.”
The police arrived later that day to find Edwin Baxter’s dead body in front of the mirror. He died of blood loss after smashing his face into the mirror.
(Greatly influenced by David Film's Short Flash's. Imagine Edwin's voice as a very droll British accent.)
--Chris Smith
- "A Digger of Gold" -
There Dianne stood, in front of the marble sink, attached to her boyfriend’s marble bathroom wall. Her eyes, filled with evil temptation, were glazed with anxiety and fear. Her skin, normally a bronze blanket of elasticity, was now pale and cold. Through her small, oval shaped murky brown eyes reflected the shadow of a man lying on the tiled-bathroom floor. His face was worn and disheveled as a consequence of the week’s binge-drinking.
She brought him to this unhealthy state of mind. A wealthy, empathetic, gentle entrepreneur now lay in shambles, unconscious, internal bleeding ensues as he lay struggling for life on a cold bathroom floor. Victim of a succubus. A slippery shower bed, and lack of motor skills caused the fatal blow to the head. Dianne, was the rebound girlfriend, heart consumed with greed, in it for the money. An ambulance that could have saved his life was never called. She left him there for dead, to clean up broken wine glass in the foyer of his fourteenth-floor condominium. This is who she was, a manipulative gold digger. --Chris Smith
(A somber descriptive short-prose)
- "A Rig of Big Jigs" -
There it stood risen perpendicular to the ground.
“The Big Rig Jig” is what the townsfolk had named it, looming in its sandy mound.
No one knew who built the architectural monstrosity.
Towering over forty feet, two semi-trucks conjoined in one for all to see.
The religious appeared followed by cynics who spat and cursed.
Thousands more came then dispersed.
The structure came to be America’s Stone Henge, nestled on a small Floridian beach.
Its mystery surpassing even the wisest of men’s belief.
Fear of the unknown soon proved too much.
The Truckers monument was blown up on the third day of March an hour after dusk, 4021a.d.
--Chris Smith
(Poem based on a picture of big-rigs contorted together reaching the sky.)
"In the Mirror"--
It had been nearly three weeks since the accident--the accident that will never leave Edwin Baxter’s mind. Nor will the guilt lighten that so heavily consumes him. He hasn’t slept a night since the accident, and sleep deprivation takes its toll on him. He cannot even hold his food down.
“I can’t believe I drove off. How could I have done something so horrible.”Edwin mumbleed to himself.
Entering the bathroom, he kneels over the toilet which has become a daily ritual for Edwin. It is in this position where he throws all of his self-frustration and guilt. Throwing it all up from the deepest pit of his stomach.
“They’re coming for you, Edwin. They’ll be here shortly wailing their flashy, car-lights.”
“W-what the hell… Who are you!?”
The voice seemed to be emanating from the bathroom mirror.
“Hello!?” Edwin yelled desperately, in his decrepit bathroom.
“A-har….har….har…”
He arose to his feet and walked sluggishly to the crooked mirror hanging on his wall. Then he saw him, the man who was speaking. The mirror revealed a twisted form of his own face, one whose two eyes were twisted desolate, black sockets--his mouth completely deprived of teeth, and his skin gray like a cadaver.
“They saw you, Edwin. Watched as you ran that poor girl down, listened as you squealed your tires away.”
“I-it was an accident, she sprang from nowhere, I was frightened, I didn’t know what to do.”
“None of it matters anymore, sport. The knocking will begin momentarily.”
“No, no shut up, you shut that fucking face of yours!”
“Your mouth is spilling ingested lies!”
“It will all be over soon, Edwin.”
The police arrived later that day to find Edwin Baxter’s dead body in front of the mirror. He died of blood loss after smashing his face into the mirror.
(Greatly influenced by David Film's Short Flash's. Imagine Edwin's voice as a very droll British accent.)
--Chris Smith
- "A Digger of Gold" -
There Dianne stood, in front of the marble sink, attached to her boyfriend’s marble bathroom wall. Her eyes, filled with evil temptation, were glazed with anxiety and fear. Her skin, normally a bronze blanket of elasticity, was now pale and cold. Through her small, oval shaped murky brown eyes reflected the shadow of a man lying on the tiled-bathroom floor. His face was worn and disheveled as a consequence of the week’s binge-drinking.
She brought him to this unhealthy state of mind. A wealthy, empathetic, gentle entrepreneur now lay in shambles, unconscious, internal bleeding ensues as he lay struggling for life on a cold bathroom floor. Victim of a succubus. A slippery shower bed, and lack of motor skills caused the fatal blow to the head. Dianne, was the rebound girlfriend, heart consumed with greed, in it for the money. An ambulance that could have saved his life was never called. She left him there for dead, to clean up broken wine glass in the foyer of his fourteenth-floor condominium. This is who she was, a manipulative gold digger. --Chris Smith
(A somber descriptive short-prose)
- "A Rig of Big Jigs" -
There it stood risen perpendicular to the ground.
“The Big Rig Jig” is what the townsfolk had named it, looming in its sandy mound.
No one knew who built the architectural monstrosity.
Towering over forty feet, two semi-trucks conjoined in one for all to see.
The religious appeared followed by cynics who spat and cursed.
Thousands more came then dispersed.
The structure came to be America’s Stone Henge, nestled on a small Floridian beach.
Its mystery surpassing even the wisest of men’s belief.
Fear of the unknown soon proved too much.
The Truckers monument was blown up on the third day of March an hour after dusk, 4021a.d.
--Chris Smith
(Poem based on a picture of big-rigs contorted together reaching the sky.)
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