Set In Stone : Short Novellas

Novella n°1 : LSD Trip

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To any reader that encounters this text,

This story is an essay inspired by a part of Just Kids by Patty Smith, the first paragraph comes from this novel and all rights goes to Mrs Smith. After it, everything is my doing and does not want or try to reproduce any work that was made and or published before.

Tw : This novella mentions substance abuse.

If you made it through this paragraph, I sincerely hope you enjoy your reading.

With love,

Griffith.

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On that same day, in Brooklyn, Robert dropped acid. He cleared his work area, arranging his drawing pad and pencils on a low table with a pillow to sit on. He placed a fresh sheet of clay coat on the table. He knew he might not be able to draw once the acid peaked, but he wanted his tools by him in case he needed them. He had tried working on acid before, but it drew him toward the negative spaces, areas he would normally have the self-control to avoid. Often the beauty he beheld was a deception, the results aggressive and unpleasing. He didn't contemplate the meaning of this. It was just so.

At first, the LSD seemed benign and he was disappointed as he had ingested more than usual. He had passed through the phase of anticipation and nervous agitation. He loved that feeling. He traced the thrill and fear blossoming in his stomach. He used to experience it as an altar boy as he stood behind the velvet curtains in his small robe holding the processional cross, readying to march. It occurred to him that nothing was going to happen.

He intended to get up, abandoning the idea of the ascension he originally craved. Blood flow running faster through his veins, sprinting towards his heart, but he couldn't seem to lift himself. His eyes kept flickering from stupefaction, shadowing the undeniable sunset that kept reflecting on the brownstones from the other side of the road, shimmering miserably as it weakened, through a barely opened window. He turned and faced the table, still trying to move feet that felt as if they weren't his, almost believing having ripped his own head off in the process of inclining it towards his legs. There was nothing he could do; he was incapable of moving. He laid back, fell, really, on the woolly carpet that felt as sweet and comfortable as silk, eyes running from edge to edge of the ceiling contemplating cracks and rays emitted by the yellowish crystal of the lightbulb. Robert felt so special for witnessing such a beautiful lighting that he though as if it was God himself that tried to reach him by bathing him in such beauty. He shook his head: he had been a non-believer for years.

As if it could get him to regain consciousness, Robert took a pencil, abandoning, once again, the idea of getting up. His hand moved on its own, having what one's would call an enlightenment, it kept sketching over the paper, shapes that his brain could not make any sense of. It scribbled over and over, and he just let it go, resting his head on his forearm next to the paper, he watched his hand dance, rapidly executing a wonderful ballet, brilliantly staged as the sound made by the tip on the paper was music to his ears. The slight brushing kept dancing rhythmically and a bizarre smell of a piece of cardboard that had been burned a long time ago emanated, as the lead of the pencil kept getting smaller, running faster.

For a second, he stopped looking at the tip of the pencil and stared beyond it while his hand kept drawing, that was the part of the flat where all the pictures were framed. Six feet from it and interested since he had not looked at those in ages, he went thoroughly through every photography. Even with his head tilted and from afar he could see the layer of dust that had accumulated as the photos were still sunbathed. Suddenly, while still nostalgic and light hearted from going through pictures of his childhood, family and dear friends, his eyes stumbled on an unknown face.