Early Morning Thoughts
I grabbed the edge the bed, pushing a large splinter farther into my thumb. I fingered the engraving carved on the side of the bed frame; it was a swift, swirly design. I ran my fingers down the length of the design until I couldn’t reach any further lying down, as I was. My index finger rested over a blemish in the design about halfway down the side of the frame. It was nearly an inch long, like a large scratch in the wood I kept running the tip of my finger over it, making an imprint like a long raised blister across it I then tried to touch the ground with my hand. I couldn’t feel anything, but I could tell I was close by the air my waving hand made near the floor.
I brought my hand back up to the bed to scratch an itch on my upper hip. I then rested my hand and arm to my side, near the edge of the bed. I opened my eyes, as before, when I felt the shooting pain in my thumb. The ceiling was textured with small, plaster peaks darting out like hives on an irritated arm during a summer’s day. No cracks or discoloration, just a white, ridged plaster ceiling. I was Wing to make out shapes in the peaks, like children do with clouds, but I found them all the same in everyplace I looked. I thought about trying to count all the small peaks on the ceiling, but I had to scratch my genitals.
This is when my mind moved to sex. After tending to my itch, I moved my hand more comfortably on my penis. Instead of counting the ceilings peaks, my mind drifted to other's peaks. I was thinking about that guy two seats up and three over from mine in Cultural Government. He was always diligently copying class notes; I was always trying to watch him from between two other classmates. I had a good view of his strong back and short shoulders. His face, which was a pleasure to catch a glimpse of, was often buried in his notes or a book I would sit there and studying him, thinking about how strong he must have been, despite his small frame. Once in a while, when a class question was asked, I would pause from my studies to glance at his raised hand above an ocean of haircuts and other raised hands. His beautiful plum-brown skin stretched over small, nimble finger-bones would delicately exhibit his pen or pencil.
He seemed so concerned with grades, while I was concerned with wanting to get to know him better, but never having the guts to try. He set the class curve; I flunked out.
The clock perched on the comer of my dresser crowed at me to wake up. If it were alive, it would have known I was awake or conscience at the very least. If it were alive, I should hope it would have better manners. I sat up on the near edge of my bed, arms holding me up, leaving my head to drop between my shoulders. I was staring at the cold floor. Wishing I could skip class today. Take off and go somewhere new. But I wouldn’t. I had to see him, I had to study. But first I had to get this splinter out of my sore thumb.
1995, Ben Bisbee
Look, they’re not all winners. Some of them are just hormone-driven puff pieces that offer some descriptive language. I vaguely recall being asked to write s a highly descriptive, first-person piece and for some reason I went in this direction. I’m not even sure who I was writing about looking back? But clearly, I had some feelings. I do like the first sentence here, however. I like that it starts in a place where the reader might be wincing and then it goes into a place where they are certainly wincing, but for different reasons. Ah, the awkwardness of youth.