shadow and feel
it, but he could smell it. Sometimes, when his shadow, which no longer paced to
and fro along the walls, but now circled the kitchen as a thin, opaque cloud,
came near to the living room, it would stop and emit a stale musty odor. A
stale smell, which always had a hint of something else mixed with it, a memory
scent, as Nolte came to know them. Two distinctly separate smells came to him
in a single puff.
The musty part must be the transport smell, which the memory
scent would hitch a ride on, Nolte figured. The mustiness always stayed the
same, but the memory smell was different each and every time. The thing would
stop at the doorway and fart at him, the odors would waft to him unseen, but
the moment they hit his nose they’d conjure different memories and images from
his past. Memories Nolte didn’t at all like and images he had worked hard to
forget. Memories and images Nolte had spent years, along with a good bit of his
sanity and an unholy amount of alcohol, altering, rewriting and tucking away,
deep into far dark corners of his mind.
Nolte had never encountered odors so rich and pungent, his
corned beef and cabbage farts didn't even come close. Even the constant flow of
bottled oxygen streaming into his nose couldn’t mask or dilute the smells his
shadow produced. But the strength of the stink really didn’t matter, it only
took a hint of a whiff and the visions they triggered were immediate and
crystal clear. He had a front row seat to, The Best of the Worst of the Nolte
Show, in HD.
The shadow would twist in on itself and push and puff
quietly, it was more visual than audible. As a kid, Nolte knew these quiet
farts, as ‘SBDs’, Silent-But-Deadlies. Sometimes the trigger smell would be
pleasant, like honeysuckles, or fresh cut grass, or jalapenos, but never with
an agreeable memory. Once he smelled mint cookies, another time it was
Palmolive, another it was the Gulf of Mexico, but always with a suggestion of
something stale and rotting, something musty, like a wet dog, or damp
flatulence laden swim trunks and always, some horrible memory would flood his
mind.
Nolte could see when it was about to happen, it only took a
few times, a few punches to the nose, before he had learned the fart-cloud’s
stink-process, but it mattered little, there was still no protection from it.
He armed himself with a can of air freshener, he’d waited for the signs and the
puff and then he would unleash his Mountain Berry Blast or Summer Pinecone. He
brandished the can as if he were fending off an angry grizzly with bear mace;
yet, the smells would cut through the artificial mountain air like butter. Even
body spray, the king of odor maskers, met with the same failure, as did,
lighting faggoty-assed candles and strategically placing them around the house
for a sustained barrier. The candles did nothing but make his house stink like
a vanilla cinnamon stick. All methods were useless against the shadow cloud’s
stench. All he could do was watch and wait, and try to keep the little coward
in his head calm and safely tucked away.
There had been hundreds of these puff attacks since the
first one. The last time it was hairspray and vinegar, an odd scent that scared
him, yet, at the same time, made his crotch tingle. It reminded him of his
mommy’s panties and the scent’s memory had left him curled up in a ball,
crying. Big boys don’t cry; Mommy had always said.
At one point he had let himself ponder the possibility, that
maybe, he had slipped into the realm of completely-fucking-nuts, or that his
medication had gone south of the border, maybe soured in the sun. Perhaps the
medication was having a bad interaction with the alcohol, which he refused to
quit drinking. Nolte tried to convince his mind, that his eyes and nose had no
idea what they were talking about, but reality kept elbowing its way back into
his desperate reasoning.
Maybe he had mold behind the sheetrock, maybe a can of tuna
or beans had exploded
it, but he could smell it. Sometimes, when his shadow, which no longer paced to
and fro along the walls, but now circled the kitchen as a thin, opaque cloud,
came near to the living room, it would stop and emit a stale musty odor. A
stale smell, which always had a hint of something else mixed with it, a memory
scent, as Nolte came to know them. Two distinctly separate smells came to him
in a single puff.
The musty part must be the transport smell, which the memory
scent would hitch a ride on, Nolte figured. The mustiness always stayed the
same, but the memory smell was different each and every time. The thing would
stop at the doorway and fart at him, the odors would waft to him unseen, but
the moment they hit his nose they’d conjure different memories and images from
his past. Memories Nolte didn’t at all like and images he had worked hard to
forget. Memories and images Nolte had spent years, along with a good bit of his
sanity and an unholy amount of alcohol, altering, rewriting and tucking away,
deep into far dark corners of his mind.
Nolte had never encountered odors so rich and pungent, his
corned beef and cabbage farts didn't even come close. Even the constant flow of
bottled oxygen streaming into his nose couldn’t mask or dilute the smells his
shadow produced. But the strength of the stink really didn’t matter, it only
took a hint of a whiff and the visions they triggered were immediate and
crystal clear. He had a front row seat to, The Best of the Worst of the Nolte
Show, in HD.
The shadow would twist in on itself and push and puff
quietly, it was more visual than audible. As a kid, Nolte knew these quiet
farts, as ‘SBDs’, Silent-But-Deadlies. Sometimes the trigger smell would be
pleasant, like honeysuckles, or fresh cut grass, or jalapenos, but never with
an agreeable memory. Once he smelled mint cookies, another time it was
Palmolive, another it was the Gulf of Mexico, but always with a suggestion of
something stale and rotting, something musty, like a wet dog, or damp
flatulence laden swim trunks and always, some horrible memory would flood his
mind.
Nolte could see when it was about to happen, it only took a
few times, a few punches to the nose, before he had learned the fart-cloud’s
stink-process, but it mattered little, there was still no protection from it.
He armed himself with a can of air freshener, he’d waited for the signs and the
puff and then he would unleash his Mountain Berry Blast or Summer Pinecone. He
brandished the can as if he were fending off an angry grizzly with bear mace;
yet, the smells would cut through the artificial mountain air like butter. Even
body spray, the king of odor maskers, met with the same failure, as did,
lighting faggoty-assed candles and strategically placing them around the house
for a sustained barrier. The candles did nothing but make his house stink like
a vanilla cinnamon stick. All methods were useless against the shadow cloud’s
stench. All he could do was watch and wait, and try to keep the little coward
in his head calm and safely tucked away.
There had been hundreds of these puff attacks since the
first one. The last time it was hairspray and vinegar, an odd scent that scared
him, yet, at the same time, made his crotch tingle. It reminded him of his
mommy’s panties and the scent’s memory had left him curled up in a ball,
crying. Big boys don’t cry; Mommy had always said.
At one point he had let himself ponder the possibility, that
maybe, he had slipped into the realm of completely-fucking-nuts, or that his
medication had gone south of the border, maybe soured in the sun. Perhaps the
medication was having a bad interaction with the alcohol, which he refused to
quit drinking. Nolte tried to convince his mind, that his eyes and nose had no
idea what they were talking about, but reality kept elbowing its way back into
his desperate reasoning.
Maybe he had mold behind the sheetrock, maybe a can of tuna
or beans had exploded
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