%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
| Allegorical (adjectives edited) fantasy, a creative exercise in indulgence, once again. 2006 — an empty stage sets our scene. Witless writer cued to walk in…Action! In that comfortable chair with drink, put on that music you like and write with Chekhov’s gun in your lap. Type words on all screens. A scene protracts — stand off with a gray mystery, lingering doubt — surrounding black, a void of silence. Adjust the nuisance, wobbly backrest. You thirst. Rhythms create a boundary in space. Go back in. The second scene is arriving, unholstered. There is a clueless, murderous lot, I gander. The ignorant gossip amongst them defames him — as slander scrawls a journey’s toilets. Wheels catch carpet, can’t roll or lean in. Empty tumbler, favorites fading into unknown songs spinning. In the saddle, every word and unspoken thing sets. Truth, or fiction? I get a whiff of it again, the unending serial, from cornflakes slamming a paywall. Signs point an ambling hombre into his horizon-spectrum, spreading. This play — not well-constructed craft. Frankly, non-sense. There never is a second act of our own choosing — just charade for interlopers intermingling, unending. A crafted, glorious scene, hyperbolic, awaits a dreamer. Man as gun, mis-typed, ill-conceived, crumpled, clicked and sent to the corner bin. Do writers ever think about that? Words disposal is as easy as typing lies into truth — cause, Bang! Finger-pistols for this inner Chekhov. ——————————————————— All other writers have handed in their papers. He looks up, watches the departure, one by one. The entire room depixelates him from characters into blank screen. Never more un-real in the legacy of this sea. 4.5.25 ——————————————————- I never said I was a good writer — you did, before unpinning that pride from my lapel. Dust indent-ion tweaks (still) the tinkered verses, rearranging. —————————————————— Who’s writing this life story? Me? Me, right? No? What’s narr-a-tive? Is there a question and answer, or…?? *reads litigant-provoking bathroom stalls.* —————————————————— Can’t read handwriting or intentions, in an ever-flowing spectrum full of witless fury easily provoked. When will the world hear this voice? *holds down character on tablet that won’t type…*  Serious…any questions? Can anyone see me??  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ It’s all going public. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
