Thursday, November 26, 2009

Writing: Short Fiction

I haven't written in forever, which is part of the reason I've dedicated one post a week to it. I forgot about the little OCD things that I have to do while writing. I think I've gotten rid of one, though.

I used to smoke. So when I sat down to write, I would chain smoke. After I stopped I had to have a sucker or a drink or something to constantly touch or chew on. Now I just have to have earbuds in.

I'll come up with more inventive names for the writing posts later on. So here we go, a short fiction piece based on the Muses...

"I love this hall," the man says as we walk down the long corridor filled with marble statues and paintings. "This hall is history, continuance, inspiration. For years this is what people thought of when they were puzzled. For ages, men and women begged and pleaded at these images, praying for one more idea, one more inspiration."

He wrinkles his nose in disgust at the dust collecting between the toes of a beautiful woman holding a lyre and wrapped in stone cloth. His steps slow as we reach the end of the hall where the torch light has given way to electric lights and strobes. He shakes his head and glares at the bright lights.

"Kids these days, they just don't know what they are missing. I mean, they still search for the Muse. But it's not the same. It's not for the joy of creating, it's for the lights and the fame. Bah. What do they know?"

We walk down the stone hallways with bass booming under our feet and the old man grumbling under his breath. One archway opens into a huge room, black but for the quick moving lights that bathe the audience in blue and red. The heart of the music beats fast, causing feet to pound and hips to swing.

The men on stage are spitting lines, lyrics running from one mouth to another, spilling out silken chords. Sacred and profane, deep and shallow, rhythm and rhyme. The poet moves the world.

Feet tap, knees bend, and arms swing as the dancers fill the floor with shapes caught in the strobe lights. Here a woman, there a man, next a bird stretching it's wings. There is just enough space to breathe but who can breathe when the next hook hits hard. There is no low point, no break, for those dancing the night away. In their movements are emotions, thoughts, beauty, and the beat.

The black walls are gaining color that doesn't leave with the light slow. Splatters are thrown against the wall and form their own images. Fingers and brushes and sprays capture the energy and paint it plain. Swirls appear and turn into birds, birds turn to trees turn to flames turn to swirls. The artists move without thought as the beat travels from their feet through to their finger tips.

The chaos of heat and energy coalesces, turning from a mind dizzying array into a whole. Each movement, each heart, each pigment rolls over and over. They exchange places, swap skins, become whole. The universe spins in place for one perfect moment, galaxies glowing and stars exploding in light and sound.

Slowly, parts begin breaking away. First a star, a note, a misplaced foot. Then chunks of the plaster begin falling away revealing the single room again. Each perfect movement is now a rhythm to itself. I blink and press a hand to my chest as I learn to breathe again.

Nine women break away from the crowd. Their faces crazily familiar but I cannot place them. They each offer me a smile as they pass, fading back into the hallway. One stops and places a hand on my guides shoulder and gives me a wink.

"Relax. History has a way of repeating itself, and the party is far from over."

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