"Short Works of Prose"

[ateolf]

My writing had settled into something of a rut. Story after story—passable but by no means extraordinary quality—churned out from my pen. . . all about writers unable to write. A cheap, self-indulgent copout, I know, but I really just couldn’t think of anything else. After at least a dozen or so of these redundant endeavors [trite tripe, you might say] I took a break, settling down to the necessity of starting anew.
Write what you know: a phrase that has haunted me these past three years of writ routine. What do you write when all you know is that crippling void of any idea—that hollow cavity on the verge of collapse, caving in under the weight of the fact that you don’t really know a thing about anything? The effectual poison of nothing had leaked from the furrows of my mind into the triumvirate space between these fingers.
Without a subject of my own, I turned to the standards set down by countless writers before me. So much has been written about; the possibilities were seemingly endless. So I checked book after book off the shelves of my library (the shelves with a sticker suggesting something more than just “fiction/literature”) soaking in the varied styles of prose, regimenting them down to the bones of my fingertips, tasting the atramental tart of their vowels, breathing in the phrasing and punctuation and pulsating rhythms, immersing my whole being into the stories and plot outlines, discovering what it might be like to write about something other than some guy who has no idea what there is that he could possibly be writing about. I started to get some ideas. I started out simply. My first new story was a detective/gumshoe mystery.
It was a night like any other night. A single streetlamp shone down on the gritty beat of the city street. I lit a cigarette and blew the white smog out among the pimps and thugs and other lowlife scum that drift among the neon shadows of this unsavory part of town. This is my home. The name’s Lance Merlow, P.I. In two minutes time I had a date with a hot dame, a warm beer, and a cold, downtown office. I stepped inside and walked upstairs to my third floor office overlooking the scene I just described. It was dark and the door was unlocked. A voice spoke out as smooth as the saxophone crooning down in the street, “I’ve been waiting for you. . . Lance.” “How’d you get in here?” I snapped back. “Gee, I don’t know. It must’ve already been open when I got here.” “Don’t talk smart with me, toots. I don’t got the time for this friendly chitchat. Let’s get down to business. Cut to the chase, toots.” “Well, as you know, my wealthy father has been so very sick lately. If he got news that the famous Emperor Ruby had been stolen from our private museum, why, it would surely have the most dreadful consequences for his health.” I flipped on the light and standing in front of me was the biggest ruby I’d ever seen: soft, red curves from the dress to the lips. A long, elegant Denicotea rested between her fingers and her smile curled up in thin wisps as I took a step towards her. Grabbing a bottle off the empty bookshelf, I took a sip and a seat in the worn, leather chair behind my desk, piled high with random papers and Marlene Hudson’s slim, supple body. I rubbed my forehead and took a long, deep look. If dames are always trouble, rich dames are always death. I could smell something fishy a mile away, but there was something in her eyes that I could trust, deep down beneath the surface. “Listen, toots. It sounds like an interesting case and I. . .” A gunshot rang out and I dove under my desk taking Marlene down in my arms. I pinned her down beneath me and said, “Keep still, toots. I’ll be right back.” In this line of work, I carry a piece at all times. I reached into my jacket and pulled out my shiny, metal sidekick: my only source of comfort when I’m in a tight spot. I crouched up and peeked over the desk. I could see a tall figure stepping forward and before I could get a good look at the face, his hand swung towards me and. . .
It was met with some success, but I felt I’d best keep moving lest I fall back into another writerly rut. My next story was a western.
The sun blazed down on the dry plains surrounding Tumblewood as Joe Holmes rode into town. The wind was still and the townsfolk stiller as they hid inside, locking their doors fast behind them. He hitched his horse outside the post office where his face and the large reward stared at him from a poster. He spat in the dirt. The saloon was next door. He walked over, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. The typically rowdy crowd fell silent and turned to watch this not-so-stranger enter. The bartender stepped back, mouth hanging open, hands halfway finished wiping a glass. “Whadya say you finish cleaning that glass there and get me a drink?” “Y—yes, of course. . . stranger.” A full glass was quickly set on the bar as Joe stepped onto the footrail. He turned to face the gawking residents and said, “What’s a man do for fun ‘round here?” There was some faint whispering but most were silent. “Well? Cat got ya’ll’s tongues?” One man spoke up, “Listen. . . we don’t want no trouble.” “Who said anything about trouble? I only asked what’s a man gotta do for fun,” a trace of agitation welled into his gravelly voice as he spoke the last line. Just then the door flew open and the stocky silhouette of Sheriff Bo Mitchell emerged from the dusty sunlight. “Joe Holmes. I shoulda known.” “Sheriff Mitchell, pleased to make your acquaintance again.” The sheriff drew his pistol and sneered back, “Alright, Joe, I’m giving you thirty seconds to step it outside so we can settle this like men. I’ll be damned if you’re gonna drag these innocent people in our path.” Joe Holmes stood up straight and stared the sheriff dead in the eyes. Without a twitch he spoke calmly, almost under his breath, “Innocent people? You weren’t so concerned about innocent people when you stood by and watched those men do what they did to my sister.” “That’s enough of that! We’ve no use for your outlaw kind in this peaceful town. Now I suggest you cooperate and. . .” In one swift motion Joe Holmes tossed a barstool in front of him and drew his gun, aiming. . .
It was a decent effort. I probably could have developed it further had I made it into a serial; but again, I didn’t want to get too tied down and lose any momentum this exercise might have generated. My next step brought me into the open worlds of the epic fantasy adventure.
Centuries ago in the land of Enitwedon, well before the days of the Dark Uprising, there sat three kingdoms side by side in peaceful harmony. Their fates were closely linked to the great power of the Stone of Gargontacus. From each kingdom stood a guardian of unmatchable qualities whose life was bound to the protection of this sacred stone. Representing the kingdom of Veltlun was Aegol Erichorn, son of Bilbus Erichorn the Great, son of Taragor Erichorn the Savior of the Gargots, son of Triast Erichorn the Cobbler, brother of Harructus Erichorn the Conqueror of the Inguts, son of Daelgon Erichson the Steward, son of Olephia Erichorn the Harlot, daughter of Zedrin Terragelph the Just, son of Histrestus Terragelph the Wise, brother of Sula Terragelph the Poetess, daughter of Histrestus Terragelph the Wise. Representing the elfin kingdom of Akrestorn was Lyvrin Eaeloorni, son of Voegre Eaeloorni the Elf, son of Jippesteii Eaeloorni the Good Elf, son of Nestellonea Eaeloorni the Reasonable Elf, son of Soeshuun Eaeloorni the Ruling Elf, son of Ulstroeale Eaeloorni the Clean Elf, brother of Gargooetrae Eaeloorni the Fighting Elf, son of Veltrii Eaeloorni the Beautiful Elf, daughter of Torroei Oaleaurre the Peaceful Elf, brother of Tarkuus Oaleaurre the Farming Elf, son of Torroei Oaleaurre the Peaceful Elf. Representing the kingdom of Lloelvdor was Hortaeschus Malc, son of Egroneick Malc the Archer, son of Kraelon Malc the Dreamer, son of Julaetre Malc the Generous, daughter of Berst Pnoegl the Magnificent, son of Ztess Pnoegl the Baker, brother of Cedroen Pnoegl the Defender of the Elglotts, son of Tiiriule Pnoegl the Jester, son of Denetriol Pnoegl the Traveler, son of Tiiriule Pnoegl the Jester. A dark shadow was cast upon the land when minions of the evil wizard Maldrok were seen by sentries snooping about the base of Mount Zangibor in which the crystal caverns holding the Stone of Gargontacus are located. One night a cold wind rose and a giant hand descended from the sky, bringing a wave of. . .
After all of that exciting action and adventure, I decided to take a rest and ease into something a little more low-key. And with only minor consideration for Shelley and Byron, I began writing in the realm of the romance.
With the sticky Georgia heat beating across her damp forehead, Ellie Rosebloom heaved her half-clad chest as Darren Hardcourt’s well-tanned muscles slowly brushed past. He grabbed her, turned her around, and bored his eyes, brimming with steamy lust to the verge of boiling over, deep into her. “Oh, Darren, please take me!” she gasped. His lips pressed firmly to hers and her whole body moved to him. Chests pressed together (his bare and glistening with sweat, hers with what cloth there was clinging tightly in translucent puddles), their pulses found one another and began pumping in the same passionate rhythm. But she backed away, carelessly wrapping her robe around her moist thighs. “Oh, Darren, we can’t. We mustn’t!” she exclaimed. “If my father ever found out, why, he’d surely kill you!” “Damn your father!” he replied. “Damn them all!” “But you know I’m betrothed to Michael Foster and if those plans fall through we’ll surely lose the plantation!” “The plantation? Why, I’ll be one hundred niggers plowing the fertile fields of your ripe soil, Ellie Rosebloom.” “Oh, Darren!” She turned around to see his palpitating pectorals just as a cooling breeze wound its way through the tender beams of the veranda’s trellis, blowing his flowing, black tress about his hard, masculine eyes. She reached up, her fingers gently stroking the stubbled gristle of his chistled cheekbones. “Oh, you’re right, Darren!” she said. “Damn them! Damn them all! Just take me!” “Much obliged, Ellie Rosebloom,” he said taking her supple curves into his firm, calloused hands. With his piping tongue reaching forward, he bent down into her soft, cavernous flesh. Steam rose from the heat of her loins melting into the sticky heat of the penetrating Georgia sky. He bent forward and slowly, tenderly—and then with sudden force!—gripped. . .
Having been wrapped up in all of that passion and personal drama, I felt it would be an interesting change to move to the cold, impersonal steel and circuitry of science fiction.
Making his way back into the heart of the Megalopolis, Johnny Zapp ducked under the ruins of crashed hovermobiles and crawled through the debris of burning teleport booths. It was hard to believe the Great Robot Revolt had ended only fifteen hours ago—just five hours after it started. The robots, of course, were the victors. Robot patrols were constantly swarming past: set to kill any human on sight. This was the most dangerous place in the world to be, but he had to make sure Jessica and their baby Sam were alive. As he reached the open quadrangle where he last saw them, just before the abortive mass evacuation attempt began, he felt the city grow eerily calm—almost too eerily calm. He peeked out around the corner of a building, but the whole place was absolutely still. He carefully, slowly made his away around the perimeter, looking for any crevices a human could hide in or leave behind a clue. . . some sign as to where they might be. He tried not to even think about his last resort: searching the piles of dead bodies littering the pavement and scorched gardens. Suddenly a giant, metal arm swallowed his field of vision and everything went black. When he finally came to, it was dark. In the faint glow of a fire burning nearby, he could make out the shapes of trees; and his ringing ears quickly gave way to the sound of a high-pitched metallic grinding. . . or was that crickets? A figure approached. Johnny groaned, unable to piece together any words from his memory. “Johnny Zapp, am I glad to see you alive! Don’t worry, it’s me your friend Harold Poddles. Our rescue team just happened upon you as you were being attacked. We thought you were a goner, but we got you out of that city.” “But what about. . .” A sad look came over Harold’s face, “I’m sorry, Johnny. They never survived the evacuation. I saw it with my own eyes. Hell, my wife’s gone too. . .” His voice trailed off and his face twitched towards the ground. “Are you able to stand?” he said. “Let me introduce you to the others.” Johnny and Harold went to the campfire where everyone else was sitting and names and faces were passed around. Conversation started up. “It’s the great irony that civilization achieved so much because of the technology we created, and then it was that same technology that was our downfall.” “I know what you mean. We never would have reached the great heights we’ve reached without our technology, but now it’s destroyed us. . . Well, I guess it hasn’t destroyed us. . . Really, we’re just right back where we would’ve been without it anyway. . . So. . . I guess. . . nothing’s really changed then. . .” “But our real problem is the robots! Without weapons we’re powerless against them!” “Hey, we may not have machines anymore, but we can always count on rocks and large sticks!” “Don’t you see!? Using rocks and sticks as weapons is the most basic form of technology! We’d only be sending ourselves down the same path to destruction! We’ll never learn from our mistakes! We’ll be forever stuck in this cycle of doom!” “If only there was some device we could design or build that would allow us to control matter with our brainwaves, then we could do everything with our minds and we’d never have to rely on technology again!” “That’s a very good. . .” Suddenly a laser blast exploded among them and the refugees were sent diving into the trees. Over the hill, an RX-37b droid came spinning and flashing its deadly, razor talons. “Oh, no. Those run on the cytofluxoid chip,” Harold whispered. “We’ll never be able to stop it.” “Just leave it to me!” Johnny Zapp said as he dashed out into the open. Just then a helibot swooped down, locking onto his. . .
Next, I wrote some vampire erotica.
The sexy vampire emerged in her tight-fitting, somehow-revealing, Victorian dress with a deep lust for blood and. . .
Well, you get the idea. All of these exercises brought a freshness and vitality to my long-stagnant œuvre, but I knew I was still short of my full potential—the possibilities of where I could be. It was by accident that I discovered (I don’t really even remember when or the circumstances surrounding) where my true talent lies.
Slowly it became apparent that whatever I write, no matter the subject or genre. . . Well, I don’t know if it’s because I’d tapped into some secret rhythm embedded beneath the language, maybe hard/soft syllables oscillating a kind of hypnosis, or if it’s due to some magical spell—excuse me, bad word choice: enchantment or even curse—, but whenever I write something. . . Well, really it’s what I write, if. . . No. My words are failing. This paragraph is dissolving.
My reader is the distinguishing factor. He believes what is false and scorns all truth. I use the term “reader” with some liberty. . . in regard to its blanket assumption, anyway. In the case studies I executed, I found that roughly 99.9963% of participants conform to this peculiar disconformity and the remainder, of course, deviate. This isn’t to say that the same people deviate in every case or even that such a deviation forms a tautology where truth is believed and lies are not; these rare anomalies vary by case as to their composition and relation to the norm. I have not yet discerned a pattern formulating the distribution of said dissention. Keep in mind, this study was conducted over a period approximating five years. The individuals involved number well over a thousand and span a vast spectrum of human attributes. (Separate datum was maintained for individual demographics; however, I’ll save boring you with these details as the results are neither conclusive nor telling.) Also, each participant reviewed a large selection of various writings of mine—some received up to one hundred samples of my prose (which, of course reached a broad array: from fully realized stories to political essays to detailed, journalistic accounts of events to random stream of consciousness musings jotted on the backs of napkins. . .). I don’t mean to gloat or belabor the point; I simply want to demonstrate that my findings are not mere fancy.
But what to do with such a talent? While I could see the obvious areas of exploitation, there was still something of a hindrance holding me back. Any attempt at biography would be met with derision; and the wildest fictions, while certainly having a powerful effect, could never have the one I desired. I did consider, in the back of my mind, selling my services to the C.I.A. or some such similar organization; but even if morals didn’t stand in the way, I know it’d be my talent they wanted, not my services. I’d be selling my self down the river, so to speak: a life as a lab rat or a spot on the dissection table.
This power was well beyond my control. To even attempt to wield such a beast would surely crush me. It was this realization that led me to my next course of action. I had to attack the essence of my ability or at least change it. Maybe I could negate it and align my pen to the positive. I could not stand this constant walking backwards, this endless pushing against myself. I would fight it on its own turf and either evict it or at least make it manageable.
Sitting down at my desk, opening the middle drawer, I removed my latest piece (a story about two reanimated philosophers unable to cope with their own cruelties in trying to electrocute each others’ testicles) and spread the tattered, yellowing pages before me. I read. The words streamed past in sequence / faster my eyes moved / read and reread / the words fly / loops / pockets of verbiage appear and I dip, dive, move, read, search / the flickering blur of words and associated image / stop-motion smoothes continuous / pages flip / flip / symbols contort and I find myself deeper. . . I submerge; words emerge; we merge together. I fall deep into the labyrinth of sentence and compounded clause. I have entered my writing and I don’t know what to believe.
The two characters approaching. . . or is it just their names? The letter ‘a’ is everywhere (all around, really). The words slide in some sort of stream, I’ve forgotten my comrades, they are a blur. I break apart into every word used to describe me. Much consternation when the sharp spikes of “coccyx” entangle among the many folds of “pyriformis.” My words scatter and I’m lost among the story’s debris.
The split between word and meaning is not always clear. Sometimes an object approaches evoked by a word recently seen. Sometimes it’s the rigid lines and curves of consonants I’m beating up against. I sink deep in the mire and fuse solidly with the subject matter. The thought of “electro-shock” burns me and the hyphen strikes like a bolt. I am faced up against my own letter. Case shifts and I can’t tell if that’s a ball floating before me or a tiny hole. In any case, “I” don’t like me. . . I doesn’t like me? When did I get my body back? I’m dotted with holes. I am lost, confused, broken by a huge, searing, unquenchable pain as a speedy string of too many adjectives comes crashing into me.
I have almost reached the story’s core, heart, center. “Heart” flutters by, but “center” and “core” are nowhere to be found. One of the characters approaches me: him, not his name, I think. He tries to engage me in a debate concerning the nature of an afterlife. I know what I want to say. He’s already been dead; he should know. I start to gather the words around me, but the letters break apart and settle into heaps of jargon. Dissatisfied with my rebuttal, he hooks up the car battery (I desperately search to find a symbology, but no, it’s the object not the word) and steadily moves toward me—stuck under a collapsed tower of disjointed letters. But luck saves me when the two ‘s’s of my “testicles” slither away, leaving nothing to clamp onto. This sudden break sends him into reflection and deep anguish over what he’s become, but “anagnorisis” is just a word and it all amounts to nothing.
I am at the center. I can feel the essence of my ability everywhere around me. I know it’s here. But the density weighs down on me and “eyelids” merges to “es.” I can’t see a thing, but I feel the cross of a ‘t,’ the inviting curve of an ‘h,’ the discrete proximity of an ‘i,’ the lone hump of an ‘n,’ and the winding complexity of a ‘g.’ It is here. I flail my limbs in all directions. The unseen density thickens, congeals. I feel a slick viscosity like pudding enfold me. It is pus. I am drowning in pus. I cannot open my eyes. I cannot read my way out. The dull, carmine glow of capillaries soon fades and I am left in a black that soon fades as well.
Hours later, I came to on my floor. (I know this is a cliché resolution. Had it been some device used in my writing I’d surely be embarrassed. But I do have a theory, it’s only a theory, but it does shed some light on the situation and help relieve that feeling of escaping explanation: as my consciousness dissolved, so did the words it was supporting; and freed from words, I left the pages and collapsed in my natural course out of my chair and onto the floor.) A thin film of pus clung to clothes and skin. I do not know if my efforts had any effect at all in controlling or eliminating that literary affliction I’ve referred to as “talent.” I didn’t wait to find out. I summarily carved out my larynx and chopped off my hands. I’ve vowed absolution from all words and to never form one again.
I have also promised to keep away from any information on Morse code on the off chance I learn some by mistake. But should you see me beating my stumps or blinking my eyes in a suspicious manner, I urge you to just shoot me. . . shoot me.