Intermission - Recycled Prose Pose

Wild gesticulation is an integral part of all poetry, for example haikus

Mar 09, 2022

Duckstack chopped, sliced, juiced, zested, arranged on a charcuterie board

We have received many truckloads of prayers but we don't have a lot of manpower to process it and I’m worried that a lot of these prayers are going to go bad before we can get to them

Today’s: The Duckstack will be a little short. A medical emergency has landed us in the hospital for the foreseeable future, so I will instead put up an old short story I wrote a few years ago. I hope it delights you as much as it does me.

THE PRESENT

We misplaced our history section this week, for which we sincerely apologize, and we hope that this “The Present” section will work as an adequate substitute until a new history section can be manufactured.

The littlest one is learning to crawl. One really big thing we’ve noticed is that he will leave cords to crawl towards us. Very flattering! We’re better than cords!

The hospital window has next to it these big red emergency escape… Sleds. I guess it is winter but this is still Utah, I think, so that’s an oddly specific escape method but what do I know, maybe its hospital standard. Anyway the Little one was like “I want to get in the red bag! And move!” So I’m not sure if he’s imagining sledding down snow or sleeping bag sliding down stairs but either way I asked the nurse and she said no

Passage Prize Winning™ Short Story

Possibly one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written: A performance piece, it is really meant to be read aloud, so you can really feel the different voices, and accents. Perhaps someday I will get a nice microphone and record it. For now, try to enjoy it, in written form. I insist to anyone that asks that the whole thing was given to me directly by revelation. Enjoy.

The sofa, sneezed.

"Stuff it, feather brain!" muttered the sword, hanging on the wall. It wasn't a real sword, it was only a model. It had been hanging there for quite a while, and it clearly overestimated its own importance.

The sofa looked on, apathetically.

"Oh, dear me," said the coffee table.

Then there was silence. The rug, lamp, and curtains declining to comment. The lamp was asleep anyway, as the natural light from the sun filtering in through the window, had convinced it that it was night-time. The sunlight was not feeling very talkative, either.

The silence stretched on, languishing in the feel of its body, just like a cat on carpet. The rug, breaking the silence, (which made the window cringe), said tentatively, "it seems to me, that it would be a dreadful waste of time...", And then awkwardly trailed off, hoping someone would catch on and agree. Nobody replied. Not that they hadn't heard it, (for it had been the only sound), but more likely because they weren't mind-readers and the rug didn't have any mind to read anyway. Nobody liked the rug. Timidly, it continued: "A waste of time, keeping on like this..."

“Don't worry, chap! Things change, you know." Reassured the coffee table.

"I'm hungry!" declared the curtains.

The sofa yawned.

The lamp started snoring.

The person walked in, plopped himself on the sofa, and promptly joined the lamp. It was 5 o'clock.

"Not again!" Exclaimed the person's shoes, for they hated to touch the sofa, and the person had callously left them on. The person, was an instigator.

The air was thick. The clock ticked. The lamp flicked, and then exploded.

"Guargh!" Said the person, who was always a caveman in the mornings. He stood up to the wheeze of the sofa, who had been finding it difficult to breathe. The person, was a bully. "Shillings, humbug!" He muttered, stalking out of the room.

"Fellow's up to no good," assessed the coffee table, who was always the most perceptive about that sort of thing.

"Tsk, Tsk," said the clock.

The sofa looked on, dejectedly. The sofa, was a masochist.

"Doesn't anybody want to know what I think?" Asked the rug.

Nobody wanted to know what the rug thought. Frankly, the sword was surprised that the rug thought at all.

"Perhaps we aught to help the poor lad. After all, he hasn't got a family," mused the coffee table.

"Tsk, Tsk," said the clock, and then burst into song, the most pleasant melody you ever heard of, for no reason at all, but that it was 6 o'clock and it wanted to celebrate. Everyone thought the clock was weird, except the rug, who didn't think at all. The clock didn't think much of the rug, either.

"What's the matter with you people!" Exclaimed the window. "The boy's dying, right there in the middle of the room!"

"I disagree!" said the curtains.

One way or another, nobody did anything. The tragedy passed in grim silence.

"I guess its all up to you, now." Said the sword.

The sunlight beamed.

But the sunlight was getting old, each click of the clock testifying that the day wasn't as young as it used to be, and soon it was night.

“Sleep well!” was its final, tortured cry. The sobbing of the clock, its only, recompense.

The End