It has been a while since I have updated WordPress or given myself the time to unwind via herbal tea/cuddled up with a duvet, in some of the wonderful posts that favorite blogs/followers have been posting. My apologies! I need to be here once a week. Regardless of work duties and my usual running around, I
have to, will do better! This is a short story inspired by the above prompt!!! ❤
Tingles outsourced from every cell in his body. Floating through his blood stream until every limb, lymph node and lobe felt lifted. Rising warmth seemed to cushion his whole existence and his favorite earthy, pungent aroma resonated around the room. The harsh, glacier winds outside were no match for the tropical wave of heat that kissed his skin. He rested his head back in his vintage love seat. His tattered and aged softspot. This was the seat that gave leeway to his legacy. The bustling, busy Lower East Manhattan streets that surrounded his studio apartment were of a decorated buzz, yet he could still hear the cat-calls and car horns of those outside. The alternative, artsy hub of New York. This wasn’t just any but the Saturday. Anxiety and adrenalin became a crescendo inside of him. It was time.
His smoke-laden windows created a miasma that would mirror the aftermath of a climatic love session. But this was his love. Alongside Science and Music Production, this vice enabled him to see trees of green in desolate days. Music Production gave birth to several underrated but classic tapes, CDs and slick, shiny vinyl that seemed to dance opposite him on his shelf. Science; excelled him to create his MPIC1000. The Music Projection Imagery Centre- the first device to visually project what people hear when under the influence. This was the test run. He had revisited, rewrote and revoked theories, equations and calculations over in his head. With his camera, situated on his tripod taping all as evidence, he was intoxicated on the herbal fumes. Yet still functional. He set up the four wires, situated in correspondence with each brain lobe. Delayed but meticulous and deliberate focus. He sunk into his chair. His senses heightening as his favorite substance cascaded itself over him like warm wax.
Heartbeat increasing, he turned on his MPIC. The magnetic wave of the smoke subdued his nervousness and the buzz that the MPIC generated was soon far away. He felt a vibrational pull. A vinyl record of slow swing soul cracked and crooned in the distance. His computer screen flickered. Twice. Before he could force himself to move, the drug lulled him into a depth of relaxation. His loudening intuition suggested he wait. Utopia awaits.
Firstly, an array of monochrome pictures in crimson, cerulean, violet, sunflower gold and green speckled his room. Sailing and dancing through the air. 3D notes followed, appearing like the genetic coding of each solid object around him. They separated themselves from his picture frame, record player then window and the florescent notes hovered. Near the window, his Hawaiian plumeria flowers began to swelter. Somehow moist now, the yellow and pink leaves began to vibrate and seep in dewy pleasure, the flower’s core pulsating in an orgasmic convulsion. There was a word for that… He remembered. The biological name for the middle of a flower. ‘Stigma’. He heard. The word uttered by a sensual, female lower vocal register as the ‘ahh’ sound echoed and resounded with euphoric harmonies. Familiar. He felt a phallic reaction; arousal at nothing in particular. Scents of his wife blossomed out of nowhere. Demanding but not dire. A satisfactory, libidinous tingling. Even under intoxication, he remained faithful to her- his muse.
As the record progressed, the flavored baritone of the soul singer and his art of melisma sent chills down the scientist’s spine. The darkness seemed to carousel, while flashes of pearl cobblestones and neon shapes faded into the motion of the abyss. His wild locks swayed like palm trees. An incense named ‘Kemet’ burned with a vengeance, he smelled the sweet, spice-influx of the exotic, Egyptian musk. The scent reminding him of the word ‘pheromones’. Images of gold pavements, black soil, mango orange sunlight and regal civilizations pirouetted in and out of vision.
A sudden siren seared through his visions, causing his airborne counterparts to vanquish. He jumped up in shock. His pulse raced and his fingers, defensively seized into fists. A light flickered on and his wife ran in. His chest heaved and fell in double time. She saw his face, saw the machine and his computer and scolded herself for her unintended but startling intrusion. He unclenched his fists and gestured for her to sit on his lap.
“I’m sorry if I startled you. The smoke alarm came on. I can’t turn it off.” He rested his head in her welcoming chest, hunger suddenly claiming his taste buds and churning his eager stomach. High interrupted, yet not completely, he kissed her on the cheek and stood to follow the tantalizing aromas in the kitchen.
“How was the test run honey? Did it work?
He looked at the camera. Still recording. He was excited to see what was captured from both of his narcotic and musical trajectory. A creation that his wife jokingly deemed ‘too controversial’. Exhilaration rose at the possibilities that this machine would create worldwide.
“It mirrored you. It was perfect.”