Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

Our first fiction assignment was to write a flash fiction piece - something short and to the point.  The added element is we had to include something referred to as a "trope" - a singular object, idea, etc around which the action in the piece revolves.  Suggestions for locations included a yard sale, so I started thinking about a yard sale gone wrong.

This was what flowed from my fingertips, sitting in class...

Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

 

 



The sun, burning through the early morning fog, cut the chill like a barber’s razor.  Grass crunched under heavy feet, dew glistening like diamonds.

The tattered remains of a former life scattered the lawn on rickety wooden tables.  Brightly colored plastic, smooth glazed ceramics, and tarnished metal beckoned like the perfume of a beautiful woman.

Among the broken toys and tattered clothing, he saw something – something as beautiful as it was terrible.  He’d been looking for this book for years, and here it was – tossed aside like garbage.

His fingers gingerly brushed the cover, cool to the touch… jagged along a torn edge.  He lifted it, the smell of paper, ink, and dust – a heady aroma to any bibliophile – assaulted his senses and touched parts of him he’d thought long dead.

He must have it!

Setting the book down, he reached for his wallet.  He checked for cash and, elated with his find, went to grab his treasure again.

It was gone!

He looked around, wild eyed and panicked.  He must have it!  Where’d it go?

A woman walked away from him, something in her hands.

“Give it to me,” he shouted.

She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“I just found it!  You can’t take it!”

She shook her head and turned to leave.

He ran, tackling her from behind and knocking her to the ground.

“I have to have it!”  His eyes, glazed with adrenaline, bulged from his face.

He ripped it out of her hands, only to find his treasured book was a lunchbox the lady had just bought.

He rolled off her, defeated… depressed…

He laid there, looking up at a clear blue sky.  In the distance, flashing lights and sirens grew closer.

As soon as he escaped again, he’d find his precious book…

His prize…

His treasure…

… that part of his soul he’d lost so long ago to the ravages of time and insanity.

Pillar of Strength

Part of the exhibits in the UAF Museum of the North is prehistoric mammoth & mastodon bones and teeth.  There's a femur bone you're allowed to touch, so, during our Walk and Write, I spent time just studying it; running my hands over it to feel the textures; enjoying the way the bone and the history both gelled in my head.

This poem is a result of the time spent with that femur bone.

Pillar of Strength

Strong yet hollow

It stands the ravages of time

An outer face,

Once pale and unblemished,
Darkens…
     Cracks…
          Chips.

Smooth from wind and rain

Preserved by Nature

A supporting character –

Just a part of the whole –
Unlocking history

Fragile,

     Easily broken

Indestructible,

     Resisting pressure

Davis Soccer Fields Complex

Our poetry assignment on our fourth day was to write a haibun.  This is a form of poetry that combines a haiku with short prose.  The prose can either come before (traditional) or after, but you must have both elements in this form.

Our assignment was to write a haibun about somewhere we'd walk.  Since this was the day after spending five hours at different soccer games, it was no wonder I chose the soccer fields as my inspiration.

Davis Soccer Fields: A Haibun



The grass is mottled, colors changing from green to yellow to brown and black again.  Small cylindrical plugs of grass layered with rich dirt lay scattered about like forgotten toy soldiers.  The air, all at once, is chaotic yet quiet – a moment of solitude in a sea of cacophony as you cross each grid.

The complex is a place of life… of fun… of youth… of sport.  Colorful white lines of tacky spray paint mark the unforgiving, unrelenting borders you dare not cross lest you yield position to your foe.

Uniforms ready

Feet forward to attack

Black and white missiles fly

A Field Guide to the Dragonfly

Again, this poem is another assignment from my creative writing workshop.  This assignment was to write a poem with a list.  And, once again, my brain went immediately to the dragonfly and part of an assignment from the previous day.

The assignment was specific about the title.  It had to be "A Short History of ______", "A Field Guide to the _________", or "The Industry of __________".  Hence the title...

A Field Guide to the Dragonfly

 

Low comforting buzz of wings
Slicing through the air in an acrobatic ballet
Vividly verdant
Awesomely azure
Wings,
Clear as Caribbean waters
Lined in an intricate weave of
Veins as golden as an Autumn sunset.

Scurries
Dipping
Weaving
Turning
Diving
Pulling up at the last moment before an
Unseen foe can jump

Graceful

Beautiful
Soft lines and
Delicate daintiness
A ballet dancer moving in a
Primal performance choreographed
In the mists of time.

Free Write (08Jan09 09:02) - Musing About the Future by Looking Into the Past

I can see it… dusty light filtered in through a grease stained window, illuminating the cracks and crevices worn into the faded linoleum by class after class of hormonal teenagers, each trying to carve his/her own niche out of the cold, unfeeling concrete walls of the high school.

I can hear it… the muffled sneakers of some ne’er-do-well running down the hall, away from the fire alarm he just pulled to get everyone out of class, his laughter wrapped around him like a warm blanket. On the stairs, a couple is hidden from view, tucked into that space under the stairs – dreaming and discussing a possible future that neither of them will realise because they will be broken up in a week.

I can smell it… lunch time fare sent to tantalise and tease your appetite – more likely to tease your gag reflex into vomiting before you could choke down one bite. Sweat, stale and acrid, wafts up from the carpeting and floorboards – sweat shed in the pursuit of knowledge… the pursuit of life… the pursuit of love.

Fast-forward… the sights and smells have changed. The grease stained windows have been replaced by elevators and pool tables. The dusty light is now filtered through tiny portals to the outside world instead of large gateways. Traipsing over faded linoleum to get to class has been replaced with hikes through the trees and snow, uphill and down, to try and make it to a 10:20 lecture.

No longer do the ne’er-do-wells run down sun lit hallways into the annals of infamy. Now they have all night drinking binges, their laughter replaced by slurred words and the sounds of vomiting at 2 in the morning. Slurred words are gradually replaced by the groaning and cursing at the effects of a hangover.

The smells – ahhh, how they tug at your heart, reminding you of a simpler time. Those smells of the hallowed concrete halls would be welcome as the foul smells of the dimly light commons assault your nose and stomach. The bland food and days’ old grease would cause your stomach to somersault like you’d been on a rollercoaster for years.

Vampyric Poetry

As I mentioned in the Vampyre essay, I am a little bit obsessed with vampyres. I have an entire folder of poetry on my computer that is nothing but vampyre poetry.

I am going to share those with you now. Starting in order of the first one in the series - Departed Soul - and going through until the last one is posted.