'The Most Uninteresting Book Ever Written By Me' ; By Cambo

It was a cold sweat, one that the humid heat gave traction. I could feel the saline droplets forming on my skin like those that grass felt on a dewy morning. The air had a stillness that gave it a viscosity akin to breathing honey. Sweet and thick. I looked around the limited space that I was in. It was dimly lit. The source of light was from one small lightbulb, the kind that would be in a household oven, or a fridge. How fitting. The bulb was struggling to illuminate my surroundings. I closed my eyes and took another breath of that honey-thick air. A breath. More sweat. I was alive.

I opened my eyelids, the rusty gates that gave way to my visual perception. The little lightbulb was there. The bulb was embedded in a plain housing and hung by loose wires. I wondered whether or not it was a screw in bulb or the one with the small pin contacts. It's strange how my mind wanders.

Acidic bile bubbled into my neck again. It had the taste of a thousand hangovers and felt like it would burn even through bone. I was lying on my back. My hand stumbled through the low light. A memory flashed. A bottle of water. Touch is an amazing sense. I felt a damp sheet, I felt rough unfinished wood, then I felt the smoothness of plastic. It was a cheap bottle of water. Instinctively, I picked it up, and with my other hand I tried to turn the lid. The whole plastic body of the bottle twisted, but the lid stayed shut. Cheap water. I gave a frustrated grin and wrenched a bit more. The lid came off. I pressed my sweaty lips to that indifferent plastic bottle of cheap water and carefully let the glorious clear liquid seep down my throat. The bubbling bile gave a fight, but the water washed it back. For now. Rotting wood and the smell of decomposing seaweed filled my nostrils. The slurp of water had brought back my sense of smell. Luscious water.

I looked at the bulb again. It was my source of sight. My source of hope. It hung loosely on those wires. It was still. The stillness worried me. My eyes penetrated the glass of the globe. An old, tired coil of wire was it's poor excuse for a filament. That spring of wire trapped in it's silicon cocoon was letting off a fine mist of it's own sweat. The sweat of light. Sweet light. I followed the wires from the top of the globe. Dull copper receding into red and black plastic sheath. A screw-in hook had been hastily installed into the aging woodwork. The wires and bulb hung sadly, like a pair of old sneakers clinging to power lines. The wires dipped from the lazy hook, connecting to a tired twelve volt car battery. The battery had seen better days. It had it's own crunchy acidic deposits collecting at the contacts like piles of salt on an inland sea. Battery bile. The battery had led a hard life. It had seen better days. It was still here. Still pushing out light.

Suddenly I felt movement. Then it was gone. My senses were both heightened and clouded, and it seems like something sudden can take an eternity. It was there again. Hope. My mind wanders again. I realise that moments pass by without a thought, but thoughtful moments can take a lifetime. My rusty eye-lid gates scratched closed. They opened again. I saw it. The sign that it was over. The little lightbulb on those tired wires started to sway. Open ocean. It can't be. The bulb sways again. Open ocean. I am clear of the bay. I am safe. It's over.