Flesh Plug

Experimenting with surrealistic imagery. It is weird writing with vague dreamy imagery, while still holding onto the basics like plot and character. It is perhaps harder to pull everything together so that by the end, the reader is aware of everything.

 

Flesh Plug

Everything was quiet. No birds squawked their annoyance at my presence. No insects sang love songs across the vast expanse of where I knelt before the leak. My frantic heart pounded silently in my chest. My labored breathing evoked no noise. No stuttering inhale nor ragged exhale filled my ears with its crackling rush of wind as I watched the heavy water spurt from the hole in the wall.

Ignoring the unnatural silence, I stared with dumbfounded eyes at the ragged hole drilled into the dirty tan wall. Mortar cracks of the wall were caked with dirt and grime because the wall dared to exist in a foreign land. In an eternity above the wall’s gushing wound, great forests of thick green leaves and brown underbrush silently breathed on me. The eyes of the thicket pleaded with me to stop the discharge of fluid from its depths.

Like the little Dutch boy I plunged a finger into the hole, intent on stopping the flow.
The warmth of the water felt almost soothing as it ran around my fleshy plug. An odd serenity encapsulated me. The water continued to seep quietly around the edges of my digit. A cracked finger, laced with foreign sand and dirt was not a proper stopper.

“Make it stop,” a cry echoed from a distant source. It interrupted my silent task in this quiet, serene world. Perhaps it was a heavenly cry from the forests above.

Above the foliage which housed the desperate angel, a sun glared down on me as harsh as the flames of hell below. Sweat cascaded down my dirt-smudged face; fell into my deep crevasses of worry, regret, and pain. The sweat fell upon my trembling hand as it attempted to close the dyke. Sweat from the hellish heat mixed with the thick water from the hole and formed a pinkish pool upon the back of my scarred hand.

The liquid again tested my improvised stopper. It renewed its vigorous attempt to be free. My one finger was not enough to staunch the flow, so I forced the elastic hole wide enough to insert a second finger. Again the quiet gush of liquid turned into a slow trickle of darkness.

“Please Matthews. Make it stop.” The familiar angelic voice shattered the utter silence around me again. The call strained to be heard. It sounded like shouting at a tornado; pleading for the winds to stop while they roared oblivious to the plight of others. Despite the distant voice and hellfire from above, I dutifully plugged the flesh hole with my flesh plug.

“Please,” the ghostly angel begged again. Its pleas vibrated around my fingers. Perhaps it was not an angel from above or a demon from below, but a poor soul trapped behind the leaking wall. The voice wanted me to be the heroic boy in wooden clogs; sealing the hole until the townspeople can offer relief. I honored the specter by not forgoing my task despite the sweat and tears that fell from my face.

Tears fell unashamedly even though I had no recollection of beginning to cry. My face burned from the heat of the sun. Small pricks of fire suddenly assailed my cheeks. I felt them burn tiny holes in my face. I tasted sulfur and smoke as the fire licked my gums and teeth. No one could hear my silent scream.

I didn’t realize I was holding my face until I felt my finger probe the hole in my cheek. Warmth from the tiny meteors lingered inside my perforated face. The heat from the holes warmed my probing fingers like the water from the hole in the wall.

Water which gushed forth because the flesh plug was filling a different hole. The warm water flooded forth unstoppered. The rush of water hit my chest and painted it crimson.

“Sergeant Matthews,” the voice pleaded to me again. A voice which was still strained, yet less distant. “Don’t let me die.”

I looked upward to the forest to search for the face of the speaker. Two blue, pleading eyes hung just below the forest. A name tickled the back of my brain.

“Ramirez,” I whispered to the wall.

I took my fingers away from my face and tried to stop the blood from pouring out the bullet hole. It slowed on its own. The blue eyes faded to grey.

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About Chad R Smith

I am an aspiring writer and a hapless motivator, hoping to spread a different perspective of the world and the chaotic ramblings of my mind with others View all posts by Chad R Smith

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