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The Eclectic Pen - SUNDAY MORNING by Thomas Pynchon

By: VOSTROMO   + 2 more  
Date Submitted: 3/10/2009
Last Updated: 3/10/2009
Genre: Literature & Fiction » Authors, A-Z
Words: 180
Rating:

SUNDAY, and Vince "Mince" Meatpie climbs reluctantly out of the morass, up through the esophagus and into the mouth of Death, late. The alarm has responded, somewhat Quixotically, to its own non-circadian rhythm, waking him finally to the bitter taste of fig-and-tuna casserole, his sorry Weltschmerz. Somebody's on the phone booking a lift to Marseilles, where, in a fit of pique, Moe Hemian sits in The Way Things Are and spits lemon pits onto his tarot. Ah, sighs Meatpie as he rolls sinistrally onto someone's leg, the rub: he can't remember the night before. The note on the tray doesn't help: "This ain't no vomitorium." But, he knows, groping for signs to identify the leg which, a hairy significance, a totem of Them, sticks comically out from the sopped interstices of the hotel's finest linens, the Oberammergau started this way, yes. -- My entry for an old New York Magazine competition, in which you were asked to write the opening paragraph of a story titled "Sunday Morning" in the style of a famous author, that I did not win.

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