Play Nice

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[This is where the summary would go if I'd bothered to write one.]

« Week 25Site Update August 03 »
Where the story lives


one: And here is where the stories live.
two: Here? But it’s so small.
one: There aren’t many words.
two: Oh.


And here is where the stories live. This is where I come to write my stories. Here is where the words call to me and tease me mercilessly. Here they crawl on my skin, like fire ants, biting me, causing welts to rise. I don’t mind. Every open sore oozes letters, thick and sticky, cleaving to a thought, light and flowing. Here is where my lips form thoughts that other people imagine, dream about. I think that, while they’re sleeping, they’re murmuring, living out whole lives in black and white, hazy, yet, through the distance I hear them, as if they were sitting next to me, whispering in my ear. Sweet. Sweet are those words, the letters darken my lips, and my tongue snakes out, slowly to savor each one. As I pull them into my mouth, and swallow, they somehow get transferred into the bloodstream, through my nerves, down to my fingertips and onto the page. The words, see, live independent of me. But the inverse is not true. Were I not to come here, I would cease to exist. As surely as the breath you’ve just expelled ceases to be. Dead and moving toward the nothingness where light is robbed of its words, left devoid of feeling and meaning.


And here is where the stories live. Here. Can you imagine? Have you ever seen such a thing? The keys barely work, each time I have to type the letter ‘T’, I have to get out a pair of needle-nose pliers and use the tip to push the steel arm down. I don’t know what happened to the key. The cat probably ate it. Damn thing eats everything in sight. I wouldn’t put anything down if I were you. Hmm. That’s troubling. But I’m sure your keys will show up somewhere. Not even he could eat a whole ring full of keys. Now, where was I? Oh yes. You were asking where the stories live. I suppose you want a better answer than the one I just gave you. People always do. Let’s see. The stories. Where do they live? Well, after I’m done typing up a story I rip—Yes, rip. Really, there’s nothing more satisfying then clawing the page away from the barrel of this old typewriter. It gets possessive, the crotchety old thing. It’s as if it thinks that it is branding the page with each strike of a letter. Arrogant little shit. I’m the one pushing the damn keys. If it weren’t for me would the stories ever get written? Of course not. Damn cheeky things, these writing tools.

The pens get cranky when I use the typewriter; they refuse to write if I’ve neglected them for a long time. Make me give them a massage to get the juices flowing. And still, sometimes they want to play hard to get, so I have to take them out for a spin or two on the paper before they’ll relent and deign to ink my words.

The typewriter, well, I’ve already told you about the typewriter.

Worst of all, though, is the computer. Now that is a selfish piece of machinery there. You can’t say one bad thing about it because it will flash blue at you and sputter something about fatal errors. I’ll tell you what. The only fatal error I ever made was to buy the damn thing. But here, don’t stand too close to it or it will hear us. So far this week it’s cooperating. Probably because I just bought it some more RAM. Greedy thing.

Where was I? Oh yes. The stories, well, once I’ve managed to wrestle them away from the machines, I put them in this desk drawer here. I tried a couple of different places, but the pages like it best here. Hmm? Oh, trust me. You know. They don’t have any trouble letting you know. It’s a wonder I ever write anything down really. So much drama.

OK. Well, if you don’t have any more questions for me then I think we’ll call it a night. The cat gets cranky if I don’t give it a bath right at 6:14 pm. It’s liable to chew off a leg. Yeah, you wanna see my scars? Oh OK. Maybe some other time. Goodnight!

Published 07/29/03 in Writing • | Views: 2474 times | Print

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