excorpse
published
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It was a busy morning. She stirred the simmering curry without paying attention. Just by looking at it she could tell that it was going to be salty. But she didn't care. Not anymore. Then she looked at the clock and it was 8 am. Time to pee.
It was not until she finished peeing that she realized there was no toilet paper. She glanced around for something else to use. Tim would be mad if she used his crossword puzzle. And yet.
She opted for his Elvis 'do replica which nested on a wig hanger above the toilet. It would add to the sheen. He would never notice.
We can't go on together with suspicious minds
And be can't build our dreams on suspicious minds
Wait.
F*ck!
What was she thinking? She was in the bathroom to pee, right?
Sigh. She could never really tell these days. She then reached out for the wig. Was she bald? Or did she have Alzheimer's disease. She couldn't tell, even as she rubbed her smooth head. The only thing that was sure about what was that she had killed Elvis. She needed to get out of the bathroom. But.. how? She wasn't called the bathroom singer for naught. She nodded to the karaoke band who always tuned their instruments in the recesses of her mind and...cranked it up! Long luxuriant notes oozed like honey from her throat. The tiles trembled,fracturing. The shampoo bottle was her microphone ; the steam was the purple haze and the water droplets, her sonic atoms, careened off the walls as she kissed the sky. She was never more open, more free than she was in the privacy of her shower. It was her stage, her salon, and she hid nothing there. Not her body or herself. It was out in the wide open world, where anyone could see her that she hid herself away. Free from the judgments of a thousand unseen critics, her voice took on the trills of a Verdi opera, stretched for notes meant for a Callas. Should her high-C-above-C sound more like a sandpaper squeak, she was free to laugh. "I should warm up." She liked Callas' voice, flawed and vulnerable, not the varnish and velvet of a big sound.
But sometimes Callas filled Aida with a rich spinning sound that stunned the senses and carried the listener to
And be can't build our dreams on suspicious minds
Wait.
F*ck!
What was she thinking? She was in the bathroom to pee, right?
Sigh. She could never really tell these days. She then reached out for the wig. Was she bald? Or did she have Alzheimer's disease. She couldn't tell, even as she rubbed her smooth head. The only thing that was sure about what was that she had killed Elvis. She needed to get out of the bathroom. But.. how? She wasn't called the bathroom singer for naught. She nodded to the karaoke band who always tuned their instruments in the recesses of her mind and...cranked it up! Long luxuriant notes oozed like honey from her throat. The tiles trembled,fracturing. The shampoo bottle was her microphone ; the steam was the purple haze and the water droplets, her sonic atoms, careened off the walls as she kissed the sky. She was never more open, more free than she was in the privacy of her shower. It was her stage, her salon, and she hid nothing there. Not her body or herself. It was out in the wide open world, where anyone could see her that she hid herself away. Free from the judgments of a thousand unseen critics, her voice took on the trills of a Verdi opera, stretched for notes meant for a Callas. Should her high-C-above-C sound more like a sandpaper squeak, she was free to laugh. "I should warm up." She liked Callas' voice, flawed and vulnerable, not the varnish and velvet of a big sound.
But sometimes Callas filled Aida with a rich spinning sound that stunned the senses and carried the listener to
