midnightpoet

wow...just read all of yours, Ron. They're all amazing...and you wrote them all in the time it took me to write 1!

anotherronism

midnight. I don't know if that was supposed to be funny but it made me laugh, literally, out loud... Well done!

anotherronism

So I couldn't Stop. This is just plain silliniess:


“Poor Triangle”

I should not take out my anger on you, poor triangle. Your very existence is both profound and excellent. I have no adverse thoughts about a triangle. Who would?

Sometimes, I feel melancholy for the poor circle and his irrational ratio. But he is magical that way. No? Maybe cursed by evil? Dwarfed by squares, rectangles and parallelograms… But it’s all just beeswax to the beehive. Nothing but a thang, ya know?

But the triangle cannot give me a floral pattern – only the circle, the spiral, the sine and the cosine… They! They can give me what I want.

So no anger for poor three-legged creatures… Not anger. No.

Sympathy. Yeah. That’s it.

What more can I say…

I wish you well my little three-sided friend.

You cannot be more than you are.

I feel the need to say sixty more words in your regard.

But alas… I have nothing to say.

Except this:

You don’t actually matter to me.

I only used you to write this story for a contest on ThinkDraw.

But you wouldn’t understand.

Would you?

And still… I need another fourteen words.

One side, two side, three side; you.

You’re just a shape with limited view.

five

Title: Contemporary Art

I roll out the beeswax. It already has a pattern. Honeycombs.

Bored, I stamp it with a triangle pattern, equilateral, not isosceles triangles, one by one, side-by-side, identical magical shapes.

Dara, standing beside me, is melancholy. It’s an art class. She provokes. “Triangles?” she asks. “The others are doing floral.”

“I’m profound.”

“You’re lazy.”

I don’t handle anger well. But I decide to ignore her. “Whatever.”

She sticks her face close to mine. I can feel her breathing. She whispers, “Dwarf.” I am not short, just not as tall as everyone else.

I take the beeswax and slap the triangles against her face. She pulls away from me, with the beeswax stuck to her. She dances in a circle, waving her arms. “Get it off!” I laugh. I sound evil.

Then, I reach out and yank the beeswax from her face. Her nose and mouth imprints mix with the triangles. It’s a mess.

It takes a minute before she realizes the wax is off her.

The teacher enters. Dara is calmer, but sniffling.

“Excellent,” the teacher says. “The order of a pattern is adverse to the random marks.”

No grades in art class, or my beeswax would get an A.

anotherronism

And yet another entry... My own fave...


“Learning to Pee – A True Story”

My sister taught me to pee like a boy.

I’d started kindergarten and had recess. We went to the bathroom.

I’d always peed sitting down.

This was completely new; not a toilet but a trough.

I was too short to reach over the edge.

I climbed a pipe and dropped my pants.

The other boys laughed.

When I got home my sister realized something was wrong. I told her.

Dad’s glass was tinkling. Mom was at work.

She took me into the bathroom and demonstrated zippers and underpants. I wonder how she knew.

I wasn’t laughed at again.

The experience was profound.

I loved her. My childish angers evaporated.

She was excellent. I adored her. She was wise and magical.

Later I was ill. I soiled my Mom-Mom’s floral-pattern sofa. I was belittled. My mother suggested beeswax.

An argument ensued.

Mom-Mom was the evil dwarf, my sister the savior. She asked who would lay a sick boy on such a prize.

Mom-mom was adverse to boys. My sister was not. The triangle fascinated me; the old lady who should love but hated versus the little girl who should hate but loved me.

She taught me to pee like a boy.

anotherronism

Nice Five! And again - funny.

Maybe I'm just in a humorous mood tonight but you guys are making me laugh...

five

"Learning to Pee" is a great vignette, Ron.

anotherronism

Thanks five. I'm not patting myself on the back but I do agree.

I wrote this straigh out. It was over six hundred words and didn't have a single "required" word in it.

But it is actually a true story. So I wanted to write it.

I've spent about an hour condensing it and fitting in the required phrases and words.

I think this (THIS) is the beauty of this "challenge" - the editing and distillation of a vague idea into absolute clarity... There isn't a single word in this piece I haven't weighed, judged and analysed, Does it belong? Is it relevant?

Absolute conciceness... Nothing but pure information and, I hope, emotion.

But I cannot do this with fiction - not at this level. But that remains my dream. To create such out ot the ether...

But I ramble on and on...

five

One more.

Title: A Question of Miracles

Lighting candles is magical. They flicker without fuss.

Gramps genuflects. He lights the candle. “Holy beeswax effigy!” Suddenly adverse to fire, he blows hard, extinguishing the flame.

Excellent. It’s always the same pattern. He spots marks, like stains on concrete or burns on toast, and he sees Mary or Jesus.

Gramps drops to his knees, crying, and makes the sign of the cross.

I try to disappear into the wall, sliding down near to the floor. My shirt’s floral pattern won’t let me hide.

Father comes up, melancholy in his eyes. “Are you alright?” He’s looking at me, not Gramps. He’s seen Gramps like this.

I nod.

I like Father’s sermons. He speaks softly from the altar. He’s profound when he says to put aside anger.

Gramps does not practice religion without drama. He saw a short guy at the park drawing pentagons. “Evil dwarf.” Gramps spit on the drawing. “Satan’s spawn.”

The man stared, puzzled.

“It’s the pentagon,” I said, as Gramps dragged me away.

“It’s a shape, like a triangle,” the man said.

“I’ll tell the bishop,” Father says. Gramps seems assured. He stops crying. He’ll forget the candle by morning.

“Miracles aren’t that easy,” I tell Father.

solosater

"You wanna Bet?"


They tell me that I will not live.

I am so tired; I know I should be angry, melancholy, or perhaps even scared.

I’m not; I am just tired.

I tell them to do what they can, but that I will not let them transfuse me.

They start me on drugs; they don’t want to put me out, I’m to close for that. But they have to find the source and stop the bleeding or I will in fact die.

So there is Ativan in my IV and Morphine.

There are profound thoughts in my head, a floral pattern on the ceiling, an evil dwarf with a tray full of needles and vials, and I can smell beeswax melting.

I am so tired but this is excellent, magical even.

I float through the triangle shaped halls just like Han Solo in that Indiana Jones movie, do you know the one? I’m from Indiana; did you know that?

I sleep now, deeply.

I do not dream.

I do not know.

I am waking; he is here, smiling.

I’ll live.

He says it’s an adverse reaction to the stress; that my body had stopped bleeding before they could even locate the trouble.

anotherronism

I was typing a response to Five's when I notice Solosater's entry had jumped in.

Five: That was moving and engaging... I felt the storytellers thoughts.

Solo: I had a similar experience once. My doc had given me new blood pressure meds and they took me too far in the 'other' direction. "Hans Solos in that Indiana Jones movie"... What a great line... The mind really does work that way in those situations...

That's some bad hat Harry...

five

Oops, that should have read, "pentagram", not "pentagon" in my last story. Not sure, it matters, though.

solosater

Thanks Ron.

Yep it's true, I had a routine surgery followed by what I thought were “hot flashes” I’d been told to expect (apparently if they even touch an ovary, it’ll screw up you hormones for a while).

What I was actually experiencing was fever spikes (for about 2 weeks); I had an abscess that was basically the size of my abdomen.

It was just one of those things, no malpractice, no negligence, just my body not healing well.

They readmitted me to the hospital to put a drain in to clear up the abscess and I started bleeding. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life, and I could care less, I was out of it.

My blood volume was maybe a third what it was supposed to be.

They were all stressed out and sure I’d die and there’d be lawsuits and all sort of mean and nasty things.

I said, “Look, I’m ok with dying but you are not giving me blood.” The doctor goes, “You’ll die!” and I said, “That’s ok!”

Anyway you know the rest of the story. What I found just really funny was the end of Five’s story and then my title. That made me laugh.

I again didn’t read anyone’s stories until mine was submitted so that was a total fluke.

I really have enjoyed them all though. Midnightpoet, your fantasy is perfect, that’s the kind of story I like to read and Five, I really enjoyed that last one of yours (I read it as pentagrams, don't know why).

anotherronism

“Lost Child”

His name was John Mullins.

We were playing. I was eleven. He was fourteen.

He asked if I wanted to get high.

Excellent! I had no idea what that was but it seemed profound. Of course! I said “Sure!”

He produced a sloppy cigarette - a “joint”.

Tiny triangle of flame…

The cigarette crackled, smelled like beeswax.

I had to perform. What else could I do in the presence of this older boy-god?

I took the thing. I drew hard, took a breath.

My mind screamed. I needed to cough. I HAD to cough. I did not.

Filled with melancholy and dread I held it.

He hit it and held it.

We watched each other.

It became magical.

We were high before it mattered.

We laughed.

We laughed some more.

We wrestled.

We leaned on each other.

He was the evil dwarf and I his nemesis: It was a little gay. We touched each other almost constantly.

At my house we were exhausted from laughter.

We had a pillow fight with pillows from my mother’s floral-pattern sofa.

It was so much fun.

Couch pillows have zippers.

We were not bothered by the many, many cuts we had on our faces.

solosater

Ok, that was a little gay, but still I think I like it.

Zippers indeed. Ouch!

five

Title: Tonic

“I’m telling something profound if you’re not too adverse to listen. Just as sure as I’m standing here today, ‘twas an evil dwarf if e’er there was one, all red faced with anger. He tried to kill me."

Uncle John holds a shaky, sticky hand under my nose.

“I saved myself. Your excellent old uncle out smarted the dwarf. Magical, ha. Nothing when it comes up against smarts.”

He taps his head, runs his hand through his hair, and tangles the dark strands between his fingers.

“You can’t let them get away with talking melancholy and needful. Pure trickery. He talks pretty like a floral pattern, in circles and curly-q’s, about medicine he’s selling. I don’t have beeswax in the ears. I’m not buying. ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he says, tipping his hat. He taps his cane very near my feet. I’m not intimidated. I don’t stand legs spread like a triangle. I’m straight up and down, feet firm to the ground, and I don’t move. He’s not sneaking between my legs and escaping.

“So, he feigns like he’s stepping around me. That’s when I whack him across the head and he goes down. His tonic bottles break.

solosater

Was uncle John a little tipsy during this "encounter" with the dwarf or while he told the story?

I'm just guessing; it sound like some of my dad's old yarns.

I like it.

solosater

"The Small Cottage"


I’m tall. Should that preclude me from owning the house of my dreams? “Why would that make a difference?” you say.

Let me tell you about the magical little cottage with the melancholy willows, the excellent triangle of stained glass above the door, the Lady Banks’ growing over the porch. Oh the calm I felt just looking at it.

As I walked through the door I could smell the beeswax someone had lovingly used on the woodwork. I stepped onto an oak floor with a floral pattern painted all around the edge in muted shades of primrose, teal and plum. I was in a profound state of content.

Then I stepped into the kitchen. The travertine countertops came right up to my thigh, the carved wood cabinets and the island with the six-burner, gas cooktop, also right up to my thigh. The oven, built into the wall across from the sink was right on the floor.

In the bathroom I nearly cried; some evil dwarf had built the travertine shower with the showerhead right around my armpit.

A little work is not adverse; this would require an overhaul of both rooms.

The feeling I’m having as I drive away, anger.

midnightpoet

I woke up this morning and the first thing I did was run to my computer to check if there were any new submissions. Those are all awesome! I particularly like "contemporary art" and "you wanna bet?"

midnightpoet

“None of your beeswax!” he said, and slammed his bedroom door in my face.

Excellent. Now that evil dwarf that my mom insists is my little brother is keeping secrets. All I wanted to know is why he kept drawing triangles on the kitchen wall. I told him he would have to face mom’s anger, but he insisted that these triangles were very important – a matter of life or death.

Now, that sounded a little too profound for a bunch of three-sided figures, but I didn’t tell him that. I didn’t want him to get angry, because when mom got home, her wrath would fill the room. If he was angry with me, we couldn’t stand united against her. All I asked was why – why he had destroyed the floral pattern wallpaper that mom had spent months agonizing over.

I don’t know why he seemed so adverse to telling me. If it really was a matter of life and death, surely he could share it with me, his beloved older sister.

When he came back out of his room, he was melancholy. He told me I had ruined the magical powers of the triangles, and began to wash them off.