or; text message surrealism
This isn't a story I just began for the Writer's Club, this is one I've been working on for weeks, but its climax has to do with our inspiration paragraph a bit. So here it is. It's very, very, strange. (Word of caution and all that.) The reason this story exists is this: It began as a nondescript, strange text message to a phone number of someone I didn't know. Prank texting, for lack of a better way to describe it. And I caught the fever of surrealism. Think of it as T.S. Elliot on crack, stirred in with a bit of Opeth and some pop-culture on top. Take it for what it is - a story written entirely in my phone, little text by little text. Each paragraph break is the beginning of a new text.
I also wrote a strange, surreal poem to go with it, that can be found here. The poem serves as a preamble to the story, uniting some of the themes and dealing with some of the same imagery.
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PART I: Hors d'voures!!!
Once upon a time there was a problem named Genevieve. She was a leitmotif of things to come, until she unraveled in a marvelous splash of color . . .
The colors coalesced in a shining, serendipitous similitude of humanity . . . and the lion roared yes on a Tuesday morning.
And the soft yellow sunbeam played across her tongue and down into her soul – warming the essence of her being. “Oh glorious day!” she exhaled with a simple smile.
Suffice it to say, the simple smile diffused, devolved in dregs – and her Happy Day went the way of all television sitcoms – network syndication.
But Genevieve still longed lovingly for her missing puppy, DELIVERANCE. She sat by the banks of the river, singing softly, “Oh where, oh where has my sanity gone?”
The music of the river muses split her head – she felt very lonesome that day in Blackwater Park. And the lion roared yes on a Tuesday morning.
PART II: LIGHTS!!!
Through the black of the night, notwithstanding the darkness of the park, Genevieve could see crumbling lights, slowly sinking into oblivion.
She left the dusty riverbed to venture along occult paths, aching for a glimpse of profundity, but finding only melodramatic conundrums.
As she traveled down the musty path, the leaves rose in rebellion, swirling, swathing, twisting, cutting, aching, tearing, hurting, causing rivulets of tears to course down her face.
She escaped finally, finding herself lost in a quiet cadre of carnations. And the lion roared yes on a Tuesday morning.
Genevieve found herself confronted by the terrible visage of a blow-up devil doll. Thoroughly troubled, she threw it into the trees, perplexed by its audacity.
Across the astral plains, over the river and through the woods, the Turtle stirred. He had not moved for many millenia. His present plans had been fairly forgotten.
It had been many eons since first he vomited out the universe, but he had long since slept. Only he could help Genevieve find DELIVERANCE.
The beavers moved along their way, damming the damned devil doll. Genevieve was free, free as the wind blows. And the lion roared yes on a Tuesday morning.
PART III: Muffins . . .
Genevieve discovered a quaint cottage in the woods, made entirely of Gouda cheese. “Surely DELIVERANCE must be around here somewhere, for frankly he love-a da Gouda.”
Opening the door, twisting her fate, she discovered her great nemesis – ANTITHESIS. Fearing mightily for her life, she broke into a hearty gallop – equining herself in the process.
The graceful steed raced through Blackwater, pursued by enemies unknown. And the lion roared yes on a Tuesday morning.
And the Turtle heard Genevieve's whinny . . . Startled and awakened, he stirred once again. Now properly mixed, he went into the oven at three-fifty for half an hour.
Genevieve found the path less traveled by, misunderstanding the Frost, thinking it could make some sort of difference, walking warily through the leaves, seeing the simple scars from the deadlights.
PART IV: Anonymity!!!
The deadlights shone through the murky, musty mist, eyes like a pennywise, Genevieve sat, shuffled her shakras, shook like Shakira, flailing through the night.
“Hips don't lie,” she proclaimed as she plead prayerfully for her puppy. And the lion roared yes on a Tuesday morning.
ANTITHESIS was hot on her heels, muffled in the obscurity of anonymity. A funeral dirge was prepared for eyes gone blind.
Once again, Genevieve marveled after those who sought wonders of the world. ANTITHESIS arrived, full of flames, enveloped in the venom of vengeance and vindication.
An epic struggle, studded with stars, stripes, and symbols, began to rage through Blackwater. Terrifying transformations took place – Genevieve canined at the sight.
ANTITHESIS, now By-Tor, and Genevieve, now the Snow Dog, began the battle for Blackwater. And the lion roared yes on a Tuesday morning.
PART V: Severed heads and mustard pickles!!!
The Turtle felt an awful retch, creeping up from his deepest dregs. A powerful need to vomit; a powerful desire to puke his ever-mother-loving guts out.
Genevieve, prisoner of pain, princess of paltry prudence, finally gained ground over ANTITHESIS. A sickening ~slurp~ was preceded by a putrid ~pop~.
ANTITHESIS fell to the ground, groaning, streams of blood and consciousness issuing forth in swaths of red and poppycock.
“Smells like mustard pickles,” was all Genevieve could reply. A voracious hunger ate her up inside, wreaking havoc on a havoc-filled relativity.
Muses, beavers, devil dolls, denizens all of Blackwater, approached with gifts of goodies and grand entrances. Each had suffered ANTITHESIS; each was free.
As the wind blows.
The Turtle, cooked, cooled, prepared, iced, and ready-to-serve, offered forth his only assurance of things to come – DELIVERANCE in a small, vomited, packaged form.
And the world turned.
PART VI: Rednum . . .
Forty-seven years passed.
PART VII: Rednum . . .
As did forty-seven more.
PART VIII: Rednum . . .
Genevieve, safely awakened in the ship's stasis cell, awoke from her awful dream. Sent forth to venture across space unknown, she had reached the edge of the universe.
And saw more space.
No Turtle. No DELIVERANCE. Nothing but wastelands; empty, barren, cold, wastelands.
“Game over,” she stated simply (to no audience but that in her head). Frightfully affected from the sight of space, space, and space, she entered her stasis cell once again.
She heard the mind-numbing explosion rock the vessel. But her mind was focused on one thing as she drifted away, into the deep sleep of nothing, the deep sleep of death of consciousness.
The Deadlights. The Turtle. DELIVERANCE. And the lack thereof.
AND THE LION ROARED YES ON A TUESDAY MORNING!
© 2006 Braeden Jones