Original fic: "Nowhere and Everywhere", PG, 460 words
Okay, this one requires a bit of explanation. I'm taking a class called Experimental Fiction, and right now we're learning about the Oulipian movement, a French literary movement that's still going on. Basically what they do is devise constraints to write by. They're often very precise and extreme, creating writing that seems strange and a bit unnatural, perhaps nonsensical, but that has merit nonetheless. We were assigned to either choose a constraint or create one of our own, then write a short fictional piece under that constraint. This is what I did:
I opened the short story Brokeback Mountain (I have it in bound form, by itself) and wrote down the "important" words (that is, nouns, adjectives, verbs, not articles and prepositions) from the first line of every page, in order, so each line of the list had the words from one page (for example, "cold/flames/twisting/poking"). Then I decided that every sentence in my story would have at least one word from this list, and at least one word from each line of the list would be used in the story. Um. It makes sense in my head, does it in yours? :P Anyway, it's not essential to know that, but I think it's interesting. So here's the story.
Title: Nowhere and Everywhere
Author: Anne (starsouls1013)
Rating: PG
Length: 460 words
Feedback: As always, dearly cherished.
Summary: Reminiscences of a summer spent with a brother.
We lost ourselves out there, that summer. Just us and the pickup, a bubble of peace in the glimmering nights, the sultry days without end. Clouds rolled through like smoke, the brittle almost-scent of ash in the air, the wind streaming, whistling with a fragile song, just beyond ear’s reach. I knew something like joy, then, my guts twisted with a happiness like nothing ever before. I guess you could almost say it was perfect. No, there is no room for doubt - it was perfect.
The road stretched ahead and behind, miles known and forgotten and left in our dust. Day in, day out, your gentle, scruffy voice murmured, reassuring, balanced against the muted growl of the aging engine. Sometimes the only sound was our breathing - and it was enough. Silent and serene, the big, open sky arched above, the prairie welling from the earth in endless waves. What else could we have asked for? Together we were goin’ nowhere and everywhere, all at once.
Each night we had the grass for a pillow, the somnolent earth becoming one with our bones, our beings. Rock and stone, these were our chair and table. It was enough. The flames of our fire flickered and swayed, as the faint, benevolent stars peered down from the heavens. I looked at you, my brother, without words, words sticking in my throat and I admit that I wasn’t sure you’d stay. But you didn’t quit, you knew again just what to say, answered my silent plea with a half smile and a tone that blessed me with love and comfort. That night I lay down, heart swollen with harmony and a gentle ache, and I knew we would be okay.
On the fourth day, a tire blew. You laughed, fuckin’ hell, not another one, and pulled the truck over. Fixing things is what you do best so you hopped out. This wasn’t even remotely a hardship for you, you who felt most at home covered in engine grease. I climbed out more slowly, found you already kneeling in the dusty ditch, hat askew and sleeves rolled up as you began your job, cheerful and calm. I sipped a bottle of lukewarm water, peered up at the guileless blue of a lazy summer day, tried to number the feathered clouds, a task without object. Before I could get restless, feel the itching desire for motion, you were already done, and off we rumbled again.
Do you remember if we spoke again that day? I try but the days blur and smear into a haze of warmth and rust-colored earth and your laughter. Here, in a white-smothered winter, I peer back through layers of time, and I reclaim you, you of the beaten paths and infinite fields.
I opened the short story Brokeback Mountain (I have it in bound form, by itself) and wrote down the "important" words (that is, nouns, adjectives, verbs, not articles and prepositions) from the first line of every page, in order, so each line of the list had the words from one page (for example, "cold/flames/twisting/poking"). Then I decided that every sentence in my story would have at least one word from this list, and at least one word from each line of the list would be used in the story. Um. It makes sense in my head, does it in yours? :P Anyway, it's not essential to know that, but I think it's interesting. So here's the story.
Title: Nowhere and Everywhere
Author: Anne (starsouls1013)
Rating: PG
Length: 460 words
Feedback: As always, dearly cherished.
Summary: Reminiscences of a summer spent with a brother.
We lost ourselves out there, that summer. Just us and the pickup, a bubble of peace in the glimmering nights, the sultry days without end. Clouds rolled through like smoke, the brittle almost-scent of ash in the air, the wind streaming, whistling with a fragile song, just beyond ear’s reach. I knew something like joy, then, my guts twisted with a happiness like nothing ever before. I guess you could almost say it was perfect. No, there is no room for doubt - it was perfect.
The road stretched ahead and behind, miles known and forgotten and left in our dust. Day in, day out, your gentle, scruffy voice murmured, reassuring, balanced against the muted growl of the aging engine. Sometimes the only sound was our breathing - and it was enough. Silent and serene, the big, open sky arched above, the prairie welling from the earth in endless waves. What else could we have asked for? Together we were goin’ nowhere and everywhere, all at once.
Each night we had the grass for a pillow, the somnolent earth becoming one with our bones, our beings. Rock and stone, these were our chair and table. It was enough. The flames of our fire flickered and swayed, as the faint, benevolent stars peered down from the heavens. I looked at you, my brother, without words, words sticking in my throat and I admit that I wasn’t sure you’d stay. But you didn’t quit, you knew again just what to say, answered my silent plea with a half smile and a tone that blessed me with love and comfort. That night I lay down, heart swollen with harmony and a gentle ache, and I knew we would be okay.
On the fourth day, a tire blew. You laughed, fuckin’ hell, not another one, and pulled the truck over. Fixing things is what you do best so you hopped out. This wasn’t even remotely a hardship for you, you who felt most at home covered in engine grease. I climbed out more slowly, found you already kneeling in the dusty ditch, hat askew and sleeves rolled up as you began your job, cheerful and calm. I sipped a bottle of lukewarm water, peered up at the guileless blue of a lazy summer day, tried to number the feathered clouds, a task without object. Before I could get restless, feel the itching desire for motion, you were already done, and off we rumbled again.
Do you remember if we spoke again that day? I try but the days blur and smear into a haze of warmth and rust-colored earth and your laughter. Here, in a white-smothered winter, I peer back through layers of time, and I reclaim you, you of the beaten paths and infinite fields.