#creativelyaddled

[inkmagicandquills-blog]

Lines Without Context:

The clock above the mantel was eating my soul. Every tick takes away another moment. Another breath. Another thought. There it goes again

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Sweet Salty Crunchiness

Ben was staring at a bag of Fritos hidden behind the glass of a temperamental vending machine. It stared back. Pleadingly. Wondering why Ben wouldn’t spare a dollar for its intoxicating salty crunchiness. He gripped his wallet hidden in the folds of his pocket. No. He couldn’t. Not today. Not again. Rent was due and his doctor told him that it was best to cut down on the salt lest he want to stroke out on the kitchen floor. But still the Fritos pleaded. They were only a dollar twenty. On any other day, he might have considered the outrageousness of the price. A dollar twenty! Do they really think he was made of money? Who would pay that much for a one ounce bag of Fritos?! But right now, at this moment, with mouth salivating for a bit of salt and corn it was only a dollar twenty. Only 1.20! He dug in his pocket and let his fingers slide along the wallet’s smooth leather. What was poor Ben to do? Passion and abhorrent logic were having a vicious tug o’ war in his brain. Fritos or no Fritos? Does he give into violent passion or stay that mighty beast and be happy in the long run. These were his choices. His eyes drifted down. Down to that awful, sinister and, worst of all, tasteless baked brand of Lays chips. Oh, how they were the bane of his existence. They provided a healthy alternative but at what cost? What cost?! No, his taste buds shan’t suffer so. In one jerk motion, he pulled out his wallet and a crisp, clean Washington. Stroke be damned! He was eating his Fritos. He fed the bill to the hungry machine and searched for a quarter in his loose change. Then he punched in his key to happiness: B6. The machine roared to life and the iron coil turned steadily to release the front bag out of its cool grasps. Ben pressed his nose on the glass. His mouth salivating. His heart beating. His hands scratching at the machine. Hungry to hold that treasured bag of sweet saltiness and corn. But the Fritos bag never left its iron coil. It barely hung on the very tip. The machine stopped. And so did Ben’s heart.

[inkmagicandquills-blog]

Nightmare on Dead Street

Dead Street, known for its hustle and bustle during the twilight hours, has grown to be a source of anxiety for all who take up residence on that narrow road. No one wants to live on it. When relatives or friends want to visit its many inhabitants, it was hard to confess that they lived on Dead Street, right off the corner of Hangman Avenue. It simply could not be done without the sting of biting judgment.

Read on Wordpress

[inkmagicandquills-blog]

Someone Else's Bedside Table

A clock of old fashion. One that ticks and tocks through all hours-keeping the rhythm of the day. It had black hands that no matter when she looked was at an imperfect time. It was a bit before or past the numbers. A 6:16 here perhaps or a 10:01 there maybe. It always fell between the chasms of uncertainty. It was painted black in an era long past. Paint chips threatened to divorce themselves with every touch.

A well loved teddy bear placed next to the old clock. One of its paws was placed expertly on top as if it was leisurely leaning against it. They looked like old friends if clocks and teddy bears could be friends. What a funny notion.

Read the rest on My Wordpress

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Reading A Story: A Dialogue

There was once a girl,

“Now that’s a promising start.”

…who lived on a college campus in the great stretch of nothing known as the Midwest.

“Now that’s rather mean.”

“Is it? It’s nothing short of the truth.”

“But what does it say about all those people who live in that “great stretch of nothing.” We live in that great stretch of nothing.”

“It’s not commenting on the girl. It’s commenting on the land.”

“You know, you are perpetuating the great myth that the Midwest is nothing but a bunch of dirt and farmland.”

“Is it anything else?”

“Obviously.”

“Look, it’s a story. I’m taking artistic license.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what J.M Barrie said too.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

She sighed, “Nothing I suppose.”

She had a lot of dreams though ever since her parents died under mysterious circumstances, they were very hard to fulfill.

“Mysterious circumstances?”

“What?”

“What did her parents die of?”

“That’s not important to the narrative.”

“Not important to the narrative?!” she said aghast. “How her parents died might distinguish the genre of this piece. Did they die of a car accident during a blue moon or were they abducted by aliens one summer night? Mysterious implies either of these.”

“The story isn’t about her parents…”

“But it is about her, right? What happened to her parents are important. Who shaped her beliefs if not her parents? Who inspired her dreams if they were not there?”

“You’re reading too much into this.”

“Well, someone has to.”

“Could you just read the story?”

(25 February 2015)