Robert Covington-Bradworth

It occurred to Bob, as he laid on his bed watching geometric shapes dance around his ceiling, that his life severely lacked substantial social contact. His life was empty, pathetic and alone. But how could he quantify the measure of his life? He had certainly worked hard for the last ten years; he felt he should take some satisfaction knowing that he had made a positive impact on society, and yet he was not satisfied; he felt he still had some impression to make. A million profound images flew through his subconscious as he watched squares twirl in circles around rapidly spinning triangles. Maybe he should paint a picture. At this point, it seemed like an exceptionally good idea. But first, a snack. Brain food. He fished out from his closet an art set which had inexplicably survived from his childhood. A sign. The next moment, Bob was hunched over a canvas with a granola bar slathered in nutella in one hand and a crayon in the other. He feverishly began to draw sweeping strokes, tears pouring down his face as he scrawled across the canvas as if he were possessed. A child was holding a dead rat from its tail in one fist and a book in the other. Blood was dripping down his chin as lightning flashed behind him. In his haste, Bob realized that the images which filled his head had become mixed up in this, their physical manifestation, and yet upon further consideration he could not remember the significance of any of the images on their own. He was losing touch, with his own thoughts and his surroundings.

Bob was suddenly inspired to go onto his computer, to check the youtube video which reminded him how to "roll the perfect joint." The contents of the large bag he had recently purchased were somewhat different from that of the video, as it appeared to be covered in a fine white dust, and yet it worked well enough. Tearing another thin page from his bible Bob rolled another joint and in a minute the thoughts had returned to his head as though a floodgate had been opened. Intangible, ungraspable thoughts, and yet he somehow knew that they were significant. If only he could articulate them somehow.... Bob looked over at the painting he had created. It wasn't very good, but he knew that art was very subjective, and thought that perhaps there could be an audience for his work, some genius critic who could pick apart the different pieces of the picture and discover the thoughts Bob could only consider floating through his brain. He picked up the picture and walked out his door, grabbing a pack of fruit gushers on the way. A song was playing in his head, one which was as alien and yet familiar as any he had ever heard. Even though it was cloudy outside, Bob felt as though the sun were shining on his face. He approached a man walking down the street with an army cap on.

"Excuse me, would you like to buy this painting?" Bob asked him. The man just scowled and continued walking. Bob sensed that the man was struggling, fighting some unfathomable cruelty, bathed in the agony of his own sorrow and not likely to consider the finer points of an artistic vision spontaneously presented to him on the side of the road. Bob continued walking until he came to a market selling fish. He presented his painting to the fish vendor, and almost immediately regretted it. It was the man he had met in the liquor store, the man who had been shot just the other day. The man scowled at him, and Bob could even feel the energy of the man's hatred exuding from him like heat from a fire.

"Fuck off." The man snarled. But Bob could not divert his gaze from the twisting features of this man, the ageless power which seemed to be channeling through his expression directly into Bob's chest. It seemed to Bob that these were the only two men left in the universe, standing on a precarious platform spinning wildly through space. Bob vomited onto a selection of raw fish, and the last thing he saw as he fell to the ground was a pair of bleeding eyes staring down at him before his world went dark.