Dominick Basinski

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story. About some man.

Submitted: December 30, 2011

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Submitted: December 30, 2011



His name was Dominick Basinski, and he had bruises on his arm.


Whenever he got his hair cut, people would always compliment him on it, regardless of how ugly it was. Just like any other haircut.


He resembled every other man. There was nothing particularly special about his appearance. There was nothing special about him in particular that would draw attention to him. Except, there was sort of one thing. He had these canines. They looked razor-sharp. Of course, it kind of made him look like some sort of clown of caninity.


When he was little, he had a really unfortunate meeting with a shark. It talked to him. Talked him about the whales, about how they would always be ungrateful whenever you put your heart into a gift, but they would consider a gift precious when it was just a present. Always avoid the fish, he said. The fish only care about having company. It was as if, to a fish, you were just some thing that kept the loneliness away. He did not mind this. He would've treated the fish the same way if he ever met them. He would often get lost at sea. Well, not lost, really. He always knew exactly where he was and how to get back, but everyone always assumed that he didn't and he wouldn't. But he always did and he would. His father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor, and his father had been a sailor. He was not a sailor.


People sometimes resented the fact that he was around, because of his language. He had an obscene vocabuary. Dirty thoughts always polluted the air when he was around. People would make a note not to wear their fancy clothes around him, because he might get mud on them by talking.


It was raining, that day.


He looked up at the clouds, and he screamed. Inside his head. The clouds let out a mighty thunder-clap, inside his rib-cage. Everyone could hear it for miles. He pleaded with God. He deserved, but he kept asking Him for favors. He was always disappointed. When he was a boy, there was an angel stuck inside his dog. His name was Thursday. He was born on a Thursday. The angel warned him, there was a devil inside. Listen to me, he said. He would always be there. He was, he still is. He hardly ever listened. He had a problem respecting authority, even when it tried to give him a hug.


Inside, there was a monster, it looked like a stereotypical insane asylum patient, with a strayjacket and everything, only all his skin had been burned off and his orifices had been sealed shut, behind him there was a net, he kept his feelings there. It taunted him about his mistakes. Sometimes the monster would become him and try to correct his mistakes. He was terrible at it.


He liked to write stories in his head. He could write a book, he thought. It would be about paper, and on the paper, there would be words. The antagonist would be a Kindle and it would end with the Hero being burned alive. No, scratch that. That sounds too folksy and stupid. Transvestites would love to eat that shit up on their blogs.


He liked to philosophize, and then hate himself for it. Philosophy, to him, was like a tree falling in the woods, only there was no one around to hear it. If no one was affected, no one should give a fuck. Nutritional facts on the back of a cereal box are more useful than the entirety of Sorengaard's work, and that shit is the truest shit.


Forests did not frigthen him, regardless of all the stories about the Butterfly King. He knew that forest like the back of his hand, on which he currently has a scar, which he has no idea how it got there. Even if the fucking thing killed him, he would still be able to tell people about it.


One time he saw a bear. The beast chased after him. The bear ran away scared shitless. He got a good picture of it. He was fond of all animals, especially those that Theodore Roosevelt refused to kill. Not was incapable of killing. Refused to kill.


He would often contemplate Man, but not as much as Woman. Woman was his concern, even though he was very bad at caring about anything. Man would sometimes be doing the right thing, and then he would inexplicably get scared and fuck shit up for everyone involved.


His name was Dominick Basinski, and today was his birthday.

© Copyright 2018 Durden Pitt. All rights reserved.

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