I wrote a poem yesterday after some rough starts with a story. Here’s how it went down:
Isabella and Randy, believe it or not, used to be feverish lovers. Maybe that’s not so hard for you to believe? Even though she shot him? Passion makes men and women do strange things, to say nothing of the effect passion has among weasels. If you’ll recall, Randy called the dead man a greasy weasel, and–
“Do you have anything close to a plan or this story?” Isabella asks. “That would be helpful to know.
Uh…no. Not anymore than usual.
“So we’ll just flail around here for approximately 45 minutes, talk some bullshit, and then never be heard from again?”
Most likely, yes.
“Damn,” Isabella says softly. “Just once, can’t you finish a story?” Randy, for his part, is sleeping on a metal cot, half-dead. He lifts his head briefly and mumbles, “A half-dead character shouldn’t be able to sleep, should he?”
Shhh. Never mind about that.
Randy falls back asleep.
“Look, I appreciate how meta this all is,” Isabella says, “but either move onto something else or get back into it. No half-measures.”
The man scratched his head and wondered why of 58 questions, 57 had the bloody answer of no.
The one question that came back yes contained a small picture of a smaller world. It was green.
The man was too big to fit into the small picture and make his way into the small green world.
57 nos and one yes. The nos rang through his brain, rattled his limbs, and grimmed his mouth.
The man determined there was no such word as yes, and the picture and world winked away.
The man climbed into a tree, taking 57 breaths as he went, releasing as many out.
The man, at the top, greeted the sun, made his goodbyes, and fell to the ground, dead before he hit.
The poem interested me, but then another one came and I wrote that. Today, I looked at the first poem and fiddled with the format. And I couldn’t preserve the format when I cut and pasted it here, so I took a screenshot…
…which you’ll probably have to zoom on to read it.
So. That’s it. Bye for now.