my entries for the Construct Cup |
I dream of them, sometimes, when I’m sitting at my laptop waiting for the next prompt to drop like an anvil on my head. in the vision, their heads are together, across miles and computer wires, and they’re rubbing their hands together as they think up— a witch’s brew of torture. let’s start with form, Ren says, clear, direct, short, wise. Fyn nods. additionally, let’s include three obscure required words, preferably archaic and complicated enough that spell check will think we’re lying. furthermore, let us forbid all articles and pronouns, as well as all prepositions with less than four letters. it is at this point, as they cackle with delight at the thought of the hoops the next prompt will guide us through, that I wake with a cackle on my lips. once, Fyn revealed the final prompt, sixty forbidden words long, followed by the real prompt, not nearly as cruel— but interesting, always interesting. once, I learned Ren sees and hears all. she took something that I said and turned it into the prompt: poetic particles of dust. I loved writing that poem. I love the obscure forms and words (even the ones that mean my rhythm falters) the cup requires. I love to twist my words into a lacework, surrounding the words I cannot use. and that’s why, even when the cup feels more than my tired mind can bear, I am here, first, waiting, my fingers poised for Ren and Fyn to brew their worst— I take it into me, and stir up something in my own cauldron, that amazes me. line count: 53 Prompt ▼ |