Okay, once again, I apologize for the delays. In the future, if there is a long delay, consider the apology implied.
Here are, for your viewing enjoyment, some excerpts of very short writing that I wrote for the sake of various writing exercises.
The first short piece was from an exercise from Writing For Self Discovery, a book I borrowed. I wasn't exactly sure what was being discovered, but it was fun. The way this exercise works is you think of a nonsense/fantasy opening and write in a kind of freewrite. This gives the piece direction, but not limits. The style is similar to alice in wonderland, except perhaps more schizophrenic.
I never thought the key would open the door inside my schrodinger's cat, but it
led down a roly poly twisting staircase into the waiting arms of a friendly
neutron octopus that bubbled and blurbed through the neurotic brain fluid of
time. I was suddenly surrounded by teapots,
"Shut up!" I told them, but the accursed things kept whistling like so many birds and steam engines. Steam filled the room and I began to dive deeper into the strange eyes that watched me while paddling down a river of chewing gum in a sandpaper canoe. I
stopped by the nearest bus terminal, only to find that it had suddenly
metamorphosed into a buzzing elephant that trumpeted like a vuvuzela. I
climbed on its back and found myself falling into a palace made for squids,
who were sipping motor oil out of heart shaped cups. Walking under the
ground, I talked to a friendly butterfly. His wings overdazzled me a bit,
reminded me too much of saxophones in a courtroom.
"Objection!" I said to
the judge and hit him with the honeypot that had come into my hand from a
passing caterpillar train. The cat meowed. He winked.
This next one was from an exercise where you pick three words from the dictionary and write a short fiction piece, using each one in the story. My three words and the piece are below:
erupt, subsidize, idealism.
The writer put down her quill. Tucking the yellowed pages away in dimensional storage, she sighed. If only writing were legal. But this government ruled everything, nay, was everything! There were, perhaps, a few published authors left, but they had all chosen to let the higher ups subsidize them. They were no longer free thinkers. Only mouthpieces. She alone, that she knew, continued to write for freedom. Indeed, the last paper maker in town was her uncle. By night, her uncle would bring her paper from his secret store, and by night, she would write her stories, and her ethics books, exercises in idealism. In two days she would finish her book. Then things would change. The ideas she would bring to the people would let the people's resolve and will to change erupt from long containment. She knew that much to be true.
The next two stories are semi-poetic pieces, which I imagine are set in the same universe, though possibly not. They each have a particular allegory that sort of expressed my various emotions at the time of writing.
Today
I sat down in the worn leather chair. It has a soft feel to it, old, but more comfortable than when it was new.
Outside, the blizzard rages on. I don't know how the weather man manages to get his predictions so wrong.
"Sunny today with highs in the mid 70s." Yeah right. Today a blizzard, tomorrow a thunderstorm, next day a blizzard again.
Chaos. Always is. Always has been. For as long as I can remember.
Occasionally, I go into my study and look into the cubic glass paperweight I got for some holiday present. Very seldom, if I think hard while gazing into the glass, I can recall a time of sunshine and brightness. A time when birds sang every morning, crickets every night. A time long in the past and a world away.
Still, I'm here. Not everyone could say that. And my servant keeps the fire blazing in the hearth, when I don't exile him into the shivering cold while entertaining visitors from strange, exotic countries.
He's actually my father. Or was it my brother? My king? Possibly a little bit of each. Still, he stokes the fire like no one else can. Mine are always pitiful little flickers of flame.
He keeps me sane. Tonight is a clear night, the first in awhile. We both go out to gaze at the stars.
I hold his hand, worn and rough from the battle wound he took long ago. Long, long ago. Before I even knew what the war was about.
He looks at me. And the stars are his eyes. Or the other way around. I no longer know or care which.
"Light."
Visit
The courtyard is empty. I knew it would be. It's been empty for a long time. Obviously, it's too soon to expect a visit from the one I was looking for. Too much has happened. And anyway, he doesn't just show up. But he sends gifts. Always signed with that ineffable signature of his, that I can never quite tell where the whys meet the aitches or anything else. He is no mere human. If he were, the meaning would be lost.
I gradually become aware of the statues sharing the courtyard with me. They are sometimes the present, sometimes the past, sometimes the future. I walk up to the first one. A dancing figure, with opaque and unreadable eyes, and a faint smirk. He holds out his trident, expecting something. I shake my head. The eyes grow cold and stony again. This one must have been made on an inspiring day by its sculptor. Doubtless, rare and wondrous visions came to the artist on the day he was made. I walk on.
Another crosses my path. Perhaps friendlier than the first. Then again, perhaps not. This one sits in a cross legged position that almost makes him appear to be rubber. He has a beatific smile on his face and closed eyes. He gestures to the ground next to him, perhaps indicating me to sit. I consider it. A seat would be nice. But the stone is too cold, too hard. The sculptor felt different carving this one. Perhaps an air of the saintly crossed his mind. Who can tell?
Finally, I see one more. This one's face is frozen in an expression of pain. Beyond that, he seems to be ordinary. There's no magic in his carving. The sculptor, I imagine, must have been uninspired on that day. He looks deep into my eyes. And he, unlike all the others, speaks.
"You know me,"
I am silent. I cannot respond. Perhaps some other time, if I were home in my study, I could answer his questioning truth. But now, my lips are sealed.
He is silent, but does not return to stone. I hear a wind blowing. Slowly, bit by bit, I become dust. Autumn leaves, and wind. Perhaps it is not I, I decide in the remains of joyous consciousness, but the wind that made me all along. It is over. But it is just beginning.
