Hokey Pokey (What this blog's all about)

A writing challenge I've given myself to write every day for six months. After some posts, I'll put in a comment with a brief explanation of the inspiration for the piece. Some posts will be practice for bigger projects: character sketches or settings. I don't really know what all will happen which is why I'm doing it.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Day 17

If you put your evil to my good name, temptation would be both our master. If we give in and hold hands we can unzipper the space between here and Midori. It would splice a small hole for just us to come on through. ON the other side, the skies would be emerald and the freshwaters a deep purple. We'd think it wind first when it blew and the metal-tipped gold leaves would rustle and sing to us from their windchimes. The leaves produce the gold as a by product in place of CO2. For who needs more atmosphere than a setting such as this? This place where beings forms are neither seen nor smelt, but are felt in the wind. They are feelings with textures like velvet and amphibeous skin. This is a place where energy is converted. Electrodes can get out of those ruts they've been in. Be swayed to move about. So lilypads bloom with amethyst and sometimes boogers turn to coal. Life energy stumbles upon this place and experiences the conversion from time to time.

In goes a sassyfrassy type and out comes something that has felt the gauzy touch of a being. And that energy is just changed. A neutron here and tweak there, and poof a buddha is born with a penchant for jokes.

Lately Midori has grown in species as on Earth 10 species an hour goes extinct. All that energy needs a place to go and sometimes it lands here. Midori grows in diversity as a result, reinventing its plants and animals once a week or so. There are epiphets now like pollen, glistening in the pink moonlight. Some are soft, like cottonwood, others prickly and you don't want to get caught in a whirlwind of their regret.

There are tubular shaped plants with feet that step out of your way. They're filled with fudgy sludge and its uncertain whether you'll find one that is rich and creamy or putrid. An occasional suicide or tragedy lands itself here and when it does, it goes into the great sand dune. The sands there are every color, including ones that flitter patterns and colors never before seen in this realm. The locals call the sands The Ash, for out of their fecund grains, ideas rise up. You may lie down to die, breathing in the bits and pieces, suffocating and dissolving into the perfumy inspiration. And you may just break up and become the New, adding to the heaping sands. Or you may arise, each thought you express a strand of jewelled brilliance.

1 comment:

  1. My husband told me to try sci fi fantasy. I tried for a setting and it was fun to write and think about. I think it should be rewritten. I haven't made up a rule yet about rewrites. Maybe I'll rework this and post it.