Of Loathing Quills and Bone Parchments

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
The horrors of writers block and random nonsense.

Submitted: October 28, 2014

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Submitted: October 28, 2014

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Writer's block.

What is the meat of your story? Is it the gore of drama, the flesh peeled back one trauma to a character at a time or is it perhaps the thin veil of a writer's sanity upon having to stare at a page of half spilled bloody words only to find the inkwell is dry... Is it the hard violent tongue and heated breath of the looming flame licked shadows that is one's encroaching deadline or perhaps that one single, solitary, lonely little voice in the back of an empty theatre that claps upon your entry of a new line, that drives you to write? What whimsy and fancy, what horror must you have live to be stricken so with verse that grips the heart in Poe like screams? Tell us-we are going to twist your life story anyways-, Spill your vitae -we will validate our gallows judgements with your words, upon this bitter snowblind ground so that it may be fertile with your corpse and we may profit from your eternal suffering long past your grave.

The pen is loathing, the parchment as sterile as bone and the vexment of a writer without a story to call home, thus is now why I write of nonsense. What is it, to think in pictures not in words and attempt to describe your world to another, to work with others when they think in logical progression and you, like movie flashes, trying to make sense of the image before its gone and missing those details that translate it easier to someone you're speaking to or writing too. Thusly the pen is loathing, the parchment as clean as bone and I write of nothing, the fear of nothing. The blankness that is a page, eager to be shed the souls blood of whomever so dares to prick their finger and cast crimson ink upon its flesh. Is it madness to type such vividness? To draw the soul in of the reader so that the sour sting, and refreshing revulsion roll upon the tongue's tastebuds, drawing forth memory of childhood as if they themselves had made that lemonade. To draw the reader in to the sounds of the street behind them at the stand, the bustling heated traffic, the birds above cawing as a murder of crows flies past above, the sound of the coins clinking in the jar before them as they pay their due, echoing into the reader's own ears as if a movie, a scene they could in actuality... see. Is the use of descriptional words, the agony of showing just enough as to insight the imagination into seeing the familiar lines of their own hand as they move it forward, watching as the fingers coil around the chilled autumn glass. The dew of morning, condensing the side, leaving frosted imprints of their fingertips passing. The sour liquid, lifted up to bristling lips. The eyes catching upon the light of the ice cube, refracting their own image back to them in horrific glee. The way the sun in that image enhanced every blemish, every scar and mark, twisted every pain that wrenched those wrinkles below their eyes. The feel of glass as it shatters upon their hand, the pain coursing up every nerve stem from that bitter prick of shard.  The chared, salt taste of crimson as instinctively that familiar hand betrays to press between the lips to salve the wound, the sour taste of lemonade stinging, deeper as the children scream for their mothers at the broken glass. Finally, emotion breaking through, the fifth of the senses, touch, taste, sight, sound, emotion swirls, memory twists and broils.  An angry parent yelling for payment, for retribution for their child's fear. Screams in the minds eye of lemonade stands long ago, of spilt drinks and broken boards, the eyes closing with a bead of tear fighting, struggling to be let free of its lid and roll wild down those blemished cheeks. Appologies and touches of cloth, the last crimson memory before fading off into traffic.

Show, not tell. K.I.S.S the page, Keep it simple stupid. But arguably, even moby dick or so the rumors go, had three pages of how white the whale was. There does not have to be anything behind the words, when a work of art, can be but a line on a blank page and triumphed. Readers will find meaning, emotion, memory, purpose behind works even as random as this dry babbling of a washed up fool striving to find meat upon the bones of parchment before me. The fact you have tried, that you frustrate and rip apart the page to derive some work, some blathering, is in itself what matters. The purpose, is your will, and willingness to try. Your daring and courage to put forth anything below public scrutiney and eye, knowing full well that no one, can know even if you were to try and explain, what is behind that loathing pen that carves into that bone parchment to try and give them something to knaw on. See. Spot. Run with that bone. Look how well he plays with it, turns it, looks at it, rolls around above it. He wags his tail overjoyed, lips and teeth knawing happily then promptly, without much ado about nothing, buries it and then cries "cliche" to the moon all night, keeping up the neighbours from a good night sleep until they either join in to the mob chorus or throw more bones into the yard in the vain hope he'll shut up. To no avail, will just keep barking.

Le sigh. But a writer is not just whom the label of profession applies! Writer, dear writer, can be anyone but as to what may catch that eye to turn the page Is the crux of the matter. Goodluck, calming your pens, turning your parchments into meat and flesh to be devoured by your audience. The bone and quill are not to be feared, the words'll come where they may, or else, perhaps proding with a stick, like a child stumbled upon a dead frog may be of help. The bone cries for flesh, the Quill its bloody words, so just kick back as the vein flows. What you will write will strike you, when you least expect.

 


© Copyright 2020 Aranea. All rights reserved.

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