post-ides? post ideas!

That was the day Jeremy woke up.

That was all he ever did, it seemed.

Sometimes he did it without falling asleep. Now there was a phenomenon. He'd snap up and glaze his mind in a sleek fuzz, listening to the radio static for consistency.

It wasn't difficult to find a sheet of paper near him with the same three or four words repeated on it in his disjointed handwriting. Black ink. Always black ink on white college ruled notebook paper. It was safe.

Every afternoon Jeremy stood at the picture window and watched the rush hours throw sad, sad humans past. It would've made him smile, but he couldn't see their faces. Just hubcaps and briefcases.

Although Jeremy wore clothes, no one could ever remember what they were. Few people even remembered Jeremy. He, of all people, forgot himself from time to time.

It was on these rare occasions of extroversion that Jeremy found his front door open and his feet pulling him through. On those days it was almost always sunny, and Jeremy was able to feel an odd sort of peace, as though the grass would always grow, no matter how many times Mr. Meminger cut it, sweating and burning between his lips.

On the strangest day of Jeremy's life, it was not sunny. It was raining like the inside of a marble. Jeremy woke up, as he was prone to doing, and found his door open. His hands itched to swing at his sides, and he closed the door on the way out.

Feeling the creeping intruders on his scalp, he wondered about a world where water comes from the sky and humans try to stop the grass from growing.

The water from the sky met the water in his eyes and made the light bend and shake in Jeremy's mind. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to laugh. He didn't. No one did. How could they?

The next day it was sunny. Mr. Meminger went out to cut the grass. He put out his cigarette when he saw Officer O'Donnell approaching.

"You know this boy?" asked O'Donnell, a towering silhouette.

James P. Meminger, aged 64, examined the photograph carefully. A sunken-faced, sallow, sad young man didn't stare back. The eyes were wet and closed, and Mr. Meminger knew they wouldn't wake up again.

"Never seen him," he replied.

O'Donnell left. They still didn't know who the car hit.

Mr. Meminger cut the grass.

That was all he ever did, it seemed.

Today, however, he did something different. He looked at the house next door. It was empty, as it always had been. The picture window in the front was dirty, and the front door was a chipped, ugly beige.

Mr. Meminger went home to his nagging wife and never again did he think about the house or the man who lived there, if it could be called living.

Three days later, the radio in the house met its end in a faulty bit of wiring.

No one really missed the static.