Figurative

Figurative

It was a cold day. The coldness seeped into my bones like chocolate pudding that had been accidentally frozen instead of refrigerated. I opened the window and noticed that it was raining dogs and rats and mice. The rain was coming down like water falling from the sky…like a lot of water falling from the sky…uh…like buckets of water falling from the sky.

I heard a knock on my door. Whapitty, whappity, whap! The sound reminded me of what you hear when a turtle eats too much and then attempts to climb over a rock, but he can’t quite get over the rock and he tries and tries and almost makes it and then falls on his back on another rock, a smaller rock, a rock that was near the place where he was starting to climb up the bigger rock and then that is sound you hear, like someone knocking on a door. Yes, like that.

I crept to the door slowly, making as little sound as possible. I was a lubed up snake, but nothing phallic or sexual, just like a snake that put on a lot of lubricant so that he could maybe move a little quieter than the way he normally moves, especially if he had a loose scale or something, and when he slithered along the scale dragged on the wooden floor and made a scraping sound like if you scrape your fingernails along rough paper, but not just any rough paper, but cheap pulpy paper that is poorly made so it makes like more sound when you run your fingernails along it and the snake is trying to be quiet.

I opened the door and I saw a small man. The man was like a small person or maybe a person that isn’t very tall. Like…a short person he was, maybe like a child, but not a very small child, an older child, like maybe a teenager, but not a very old teenager because they are almost grown when older, so like a middle teenager that was maybe slightly shorter than other teenagers. Maybe he smoked, the teenager, maybe the teenager was a smoker and that was why he wasn’t as tall as other teenagers because his growth was stunted by smoking. I once heard that smoking stunts your growth. Smoking is like having a bad habit. It’s like if you had a habit that was bad and you maybe sometimes didn’t want to do it, but you did it anyway because it was like—

“Hey, would you fucking stop that shit, man?” The little man seemed very angry. The anger seemed to stick to him like a lustful orangutan that was very horny but couldn’t find—

“Jesus Christ, you even fucked up a common idiom! Just stop!”

I couldn’t believe what the little man was saying to me. It was as if I was an octopus that had inadvertently mistaken—

“Dude, I’m begging you. Please, just stop.”

Gawain Gnosta November 9, 2018