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The Unwritten Room A Short Story

by Guy Duperreault

My Janelle. To think

I once dipped strands of her hair

in India ink!M

The strand of her hair

was coiled stark red in the dawn's

new bar of white soap.

Guy Duperreault

It, the BIG it, has been called by physicists string theory. I have frequently wondered at that.

Why not call it strandtheory?

Because it isn't!

That is my other voice. I usually ignore it, as it seems to see truth as needing to be harshly

expressed. I have long since stopped arguing with that voice, because within this cube

resistance is futile. Although, I still don't understand it at all, all of it most of the time.

Because it is! That's all you need to understand. Maroon. Moron.

See what I mean?

I recognize that it is time to wait for my other voice to come in and visit me. I see these voices

as the strands of the who I hear that I am, but I don't understand how they work together. I

don't mean worktogether, because they don't do that. Work I mean. That while I can hear my

different voices they are like the disparate strands of hair in that beautiful red-head's beautiful

red-hair, undyed very alive red hair above a smiling face of flawless freckles now more faded

than when I first saw her as a young intern here a long time ago before the strands of

understanding the meaning of reading red strands of tressolated hair lifted me from

humdrum understanding into an improper upright upstanding of the truth behind the whyne

of untuned violin strings being consumed by the universal mawther coming unstrung from theglue of fingerboardnails fingering the velvety soft smelling flower soft heavenly soft strand of

red tressolated hair woven strand on strand into the fabric of the universe.

Was that my other voice? I think it is, but I have a hard time following its strands of

communicating understanding, and so get lost in the running of ideas as if they were wordless

songs, like the old man Bach concertos or Bachman on Saturday's all right night's alright.

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The white of the whiling white wall is silent and oh so white clean crest waiting room white. I

remember when before they were quiet, the times of old when they shook with fear, the fear of

my other voice, my voice voice stretching the limits of my opening jaw to be open and loose

enough to waterfall the words past them teeth and tongue and teethe the kaleidoscope white,

that lovely waterfall guarding wall with my lily white livery freshly pressed and starchy white.

But that was then. I don't speak my words anymore. They don't reverberate like real worlds,

as the words of the ear ado. I got married, I do I do to my thoughts to a closed mouth. Loose

mouths release the red, the unread and the dead write world words that lies just below the

base thoughts below the lower thoughts I used to debate in thought once but that have had

and have still regarding only the read heard girl with the secret black lacy under wherever she

goes it goes with her words of gentleness and ready helping hand me downs under.

The whiling white walls are quiet waiting for something to happen. I am quiet, to while I wait

for the waiting of the walls whiling my long term time keeping to get in a way of away. From

here I sit quietly, my mouth closed and firmly quite quiet and the white of the white walls willwhile a while while I while a white wall for a while too true too.

I remember the sun! I remember the sun when it wasn't caught inside the glass of the white

wall. I do remember the sun, a long time ago, a long while ago, when before the walls were as

white as pearl white smiles from a girl with red hair who is now red and white

Be quiet! You must be quiet, quiet, QUIET!

But I am!

Don't argue!

But I am not!

Don't argue!

Okay, okay! You win! You're right!

Don't argue!

I don't say in thought anything more because my other voice seems to have gotten stranded

on an island of old ague aches that hijack red haired discursive discourse discoveries in the

back of a black cap with a head red and ready to be your friend in a cab and see, I can ignore

your yolking me to the red-faced in your face blue faced bad joke in the black back of a kcab

blackened with lace.

Don't argue!

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But What is the point of this strand? I understand being stranded before dismissing the

other for being not and for not being the red haired read eyed nurse who walks at night and

sings without words while reading our charts that plot the course of my hour futures without

the need or the want for luring lucre with a red stranded hooker with the black fish net

stalkings hiding in wait to catch my unthought words before they can walk on their own byby-passing flatulence and the pearly white teeth that used to be yellow.

Why are you arguing!?

Where is my other voice, my saving voice, my saving grace? While I wait for it I hold my

tongue in forced patience under the duress of the white that surrounds me like the real halo

of god's facets, flat, white and six faced. And today I understand my tongue feeling stranded

by my lack of words. I think I do, but Maybe

Why are you arguing!?

The windowless white wall with the white sun-light in glasses cases my silences and boxes

them as a repellent for red stranded hooks and black cabbed fish nettings clinging to gams the

like of which you've never seen before.

How dare you ignore me!

But I do. I do want the wanting of the strands of red to tickle red-tresses' ears behind the red

barn at a sunset burning away the walls of empty full on full bright on white light walls

missing much more than stockings torn out from failed flayed fish scaled nettings and foundwanting red hair brained schemes of hope from a loss of the lack of walls and green green

remember how it feels green leaves of grass leaves on the grass left behind the white of the

walls. Is it still there, behind unflinching white song noises I don't sing anymore but that the

finches may be do still.

Did you hear that? A knocking! Will it be?

"Hello," red said as softly as a stemmed down feather floating in the currents of unseen

bedroom hairs ready to settle down with me in the dawn of a white walled room drawn and

closed to the dawn's light. "It's time."

This was written with the prompt Stranded in the Goodreads Group Weekly Short Story

Contest and Company.

And my thanks to M for his permission to use his delightful Haiku.