TheUnwrittenRoomAShortStory

by Guy Duperreault MyJanelle.Tothink Ioncedippedstrandsofherhair inIndiaink! M Thestrandofherhair wascoiledstarkredinthedawn's newbarofwhitesoap. GuyDuperreault

It, the BIG it, has been called by physicists string theory. I have frequently wondered at that. Why not call it strand theory? Becauseitisn't! That is my other voice. I usually ignore it, as it seems to see truth as needing to be harshly expressed. I have long since stopped arguing with that voice, because within this cube resistance is futile. Although, I still don't understand it at all, all of it most of the time. Becauseitis!That'sallyouneedtounderstand.Maroon.Moron. See what I mean? I recognize that it is time to wait for my other voice to come in and visit me. I see these voices as the strands of the who I hear that I am, but I don't understand how they work together. I don't mean worktogether, because they don't do that. Work I mean. That while I can hear my different voices they are like the disparate strands of hair in that beautiful red-head's beautiful red-hair, undyed very alive red hair above a smiling face of flawless freckles now more faded than when I first saw her as a young intern here a long time ago before the strands of understanding the meaning of reading red strands of tressolated hair lifted me from humdrum understanding into an improper upright upstanding of the truth behind the whyne of untuned violin strings being consumed by the universal mawther coming unstrung from the glue of fingerboardnails fingering the velvety soft smelling flower soft heavenly soft strand of red tressolated hair woven strand on strand into the fabric of the universe. Was that my other voice? I think it is, but I have a hard time following its strands of communicating understanding, and so get lost in the running of ideas as if they were wordless songs, like the old man Bach concertos or Bachman on Saturday's all right night's alright.

The white of the whiling white wall is silent and oh so white clean crest waiting room white. I remember when before they were quiet, the times of old when they shook with fear, the fear of my other voice, my voice voice stretching the limits of my opening jaw to be open and loose enough to waterfall the words past them teeth and tongue and teethe the kaleidoscope white, that lovely waterfall guarding wall with my lily white livery freshly pressed and starchy white. But that was then. I don't speak my words anymore. They don't reverberate like real worlds, as the words of the ear ado. I got married, I do I do to my thoughts to a closed mouth. Loose mouths release the red, the unread and the dead write world words that lies just below the base thoughts below the lower thoughts I used to debate in thought once but that have had and have still regarding only the read heard girl with the secret black lacy under wherever she goes it goes with her words of gentleness and ready helping hand me downs under. The whiling white walls are quiet waiting for something to happen. I am quiet, to while I wait for the waiting of the walls whiling my long term time keeping to get in a way of away. From here I sit quietly, my mouth closed and firmly quite quiet and the white of the white walls will while a while while I while a white wall for a while too true too. I remember the sun! I remember the sun when it wasn't caught inside the glass of the white wall. I do remember the sun, a long time ago, a long while ago, when before the walls were as white as pearl white smiles from a girl with red hair who is now red and white Bequiet!Youmustbequiet,quiet,QUIET! But I am! Don'targue! But I am not! Don'targue! Okay, okay! You win! You're right! Don'targue! I don't say in thought anything more because my other voice seems to have gotten stranded on an island of old ague aches that hijack red haired discursive discourse discoveries in the back of a black cap with a head red and ready to be your friend in a cab and see, I can ignore your yolking me to the red-faced in your face blue faced bad joke in the black back of a kcab blackened with lace. Don'targue!

But What is the point of this strand? I understand being stranded before dismissing the other for being not and for not being the red haired read eyed nurse who walks at night and sings without words while reading our charts that plot the course of my hour futures without the need or the want for luring lucre with a red stranded hooker with the black fish net stalkings hiding in wait to catch my unthought words before they can walk on their own by by-passing flatulence and the pearly white teeth that used to be yellow. Whyareyouarguing!? Where is my other voice, my saving voice, my saving grace? While I wait for it I hold my tongue in forced patience under the duress of the white that surrounds me like the real halo of god's facets, flat, white and six faced. And today I understand my tongue feeling stranded by my lack of words. I think I do, but Maybe Whyareyouarguing!? The windowless white wall with the white sun-light in glasses cases my silences and boxes them as a repellent for red stranded hooks and black cabbed fish nettings clinging to gams the like of which you've never seen before. Howdareyouignoreme! But I do. I do want the wanting of the strands of red to tickle red-tresses' ears behind the red barn at a sunset burning away the walls of empty full on full bright on white light walls missing much more than stockings torn out from failed flayed fish scaled nettings and found wanting red hair brained schemes of hope from a loss of the lack of walls and green green remember how it feels green leaves of grass leaves on the grass left behind the white of the walls. Is it still there, behind unflinching white song noises I don't sing anymore but that the finches may be do still. Did you hear that? A knocking! Will it be? "Hello," red said as softly as a stemmed down feather floating in the currents of unseen bedroom hairs ready to settle down with me in the dawn of a white walled room drawn and closed to the dawn's light. "It's time."

ThiswaswrittenwiththepromptStrandedintheGoodreadsGroupWeeklyShortStory ContestandCompany. AndmythankstoMforhispermissiontousehisdelightfulHaiku.