Part Deux

Continuation of the story started yesterday.

When I came to, my head hurt like hell, but more importantly, my pants were gone. Now, I’ve been in this situation before, usually with alcoholic assistance, but never had I awakened surrounded by uninterrupted greenery, discounting that one time in Central Park. However, the trees that surrounded me now bore as much resemblance to Central Park’s chlorophyll containing inhabitants as Samson bore to Mahatma Gandhi at his most emaciated. They were big. I’m not talking about “Wow, that’s a big tree” big, I mean these anabolic angiosperms were the size of your typical Manhattan skyscraper. More disconcerting, however was the long, heavy spear that was gripped tightly in my right hand, but even that faded into the trivial when one took note of the bloody and mangled corpse that lay in front of me. The life had clearly been let from this body through the application of the weapon that was even now held clenched close by my side. As I gazed, uncomprehending, at the form before me, images rushed to fill my mind. I saw myself, crouched in the tall grass, grasping my spear and clad only in a loincloth of animal hide. Only a few yards in front of me, a herd of small brown animals could be seen grazing on the foliage. Instinctively, I knew that these were no normal creatures. My writer’s sense told me that these were incorporeal imaginings given form and mass: Ideas. My fist tightened involuntarily on the haft of my spear. My breath caught in my throat. I had been unable to grow my own ideas, perhaps it was time to hunt some wild ones. I stalked forward on bent legs, my body poised to strike. As I crept into range, one of the animals must have sensed me because it lifted its head from the earth and gazed in my direction with a look of terror. I struck then, flinging my spear with all the strength I had. The throw proved to be straight and true, and the sound of impact was a jubilant tolling within my mind. The other creatures scattered into the dense foliage, but I had my prize to claim.
I bent low over the still warm corpse of this fresh idea, and considered how best dress it. Of their own volition, my hands reached to a small pouch at my side and pulled out several sharp rocks. I went to work, skinning and cleaning my prey. My labor was met with failure, however as I was not an expert in this art, and the fragile nature of my victim made it difficult to preserve its shape. My frustration grew into rage, and my rage grew until I was awakened by it.
I found myself laying on my couch, in my own living room, my head pounding intensely from the large lump that now graced the back of my skull. Stupid dog. I got up from the couch and carefully made my way into the kitchen, intent once again upon forcing my refrigerator to yield a yeasty beverage unto me. Freshly refreshed, I returned to my computer, albeit with a somewhat tender head, and turned on the dark monitor. A page full of text greeted me, like the Virgin Mary appearing before the eyes of a weary soul near death. I must have written something while I was disoriented from the fall and the blow to my head. I quickly read the words that were there, and I realized that it was not the Virgin Mary that gazed back at me, but rather the disfigured visage of a once beautiful woman, now covered in pox. My idea was here, but butchered and mangled almost beyond recognition. Only my recent proximity to the corpse allowed me to even recognize this once graceful thought. Damn, it had seemed so promising. At least I was writing again. With that encouraging thought in my mind, I finished my beer, opened the front door so the dog could let himself out into the yard, and went to bed.