Scream of Consciousness

The alley, along with everything else today, was drenched in the dry summer heat that everyone pretended not to notice. It was always just a little out of place; the only of its kind in the city, the one place where things just didn’t meet up perfectly. One side of it, the one on Frank’s left, was the result of the ass-end of a shopping mall; the other, the sides of a block of retail stores. The bricks had been painted over several times, but were a deep maroon now, with flakes of yellow showing through on both sides.
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If anyone were around to see it, surely they would agree that the lightshow was fantastic; all strange shadows, incredible highlights, and oddly suggestive glows. Colorful blips and blobs of red and blue danced around the multiplicity of rack-mounted screens and reflected off of Monty’s considerable glasses, resembling a group of amoebas dancing the tango.

Tango dances, however, generally end with as many dancers as when they started, which was clearly not the case here. And it was this that Monty, in the throes of a really good buzz, was more interested in.
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Trying to sit still in the waiting room amidst the page-turning, soft coughs, and punctuating whirrs of machinery was driving her directly to insanity. She looked down wistfully at the perfectly manicured nails on her clammy hand.

“Mrs. Adderson?” said the nurse, pleasantly, as her red left pupil dilated noticeably from across the room.

“Miss. Yes?”

“Doctor Faden will see you now. Right this way.”
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Her usual aggravated expression was in full swing beneath her spotless perm this morning as her business heels clicked down the sidewalk. Avoiding the indifferent bump of strangers (to spare her starched power-suit from stain) was always a task in the city, and the whistles and cries and begs of the many homeless she ignored – with poise, of course – didn’t help out either.

She didn’t have time for the feckless. The meeting was in an hour, and the tugging vibrate of her cell phone told her that everyone was pacing together like soon-to-be fathers in a waiting room.
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3701 Glendale Lane loved Albert Flemmy, despite all his faults.

He was a solitary man, seemingly friendless, in the dusk of his life. Short, fat, balding, bespeckled, grumpy Albert, all work and no play Albert, who’s entire life consisted of a job and microwave dinners across a room from a run-down thirteen inch television set.
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