itesser ink: progress, uncensored

At first I didn't post because I was Just. That. Busy.

No, that's the primary reason, but not the first one. The first (but secondary) reason I haven't brought any new fiction (or other update) to the table in two weeks is because the next prompt in 3am Epiphany was so easy I couldn't think of what to write. Really. I had many many weak ideas, and though I knew the only way to make one of them strong enough to present would be to start writing and discover what the story was meant to be as I went along.

I finally got over that silly block by putting on some Philip Glass and let it paint the broad strokes of tone. Once again, the strategy was so good that I made it only halfway through the mini-story I expected to write, but already find myself beating out the word count. If it wasn't 6am I'd keep writing, but it is, so I'll try to come back to this prompt tomorrow.

Even on this vast expanse of wasteland, there is only one direction for me to go. I head for the light in the distance. Every time I try to avert my steps and walk into the darkness, the earth seems to turn under my feet and point me toward the tower again. So toward the tower I go.

I've fallen asleep three times on this cracked and dusty ground. Between these periods of unconsciousness, I tread the barren land for untold hours. Two? Twelve? Twenty? Each time I wake up, the tastes of salt and soil in my mouth, I can't remember laying down. All I can do is stand again and put one foot in front of the other, dragging my wagon in the direction of the beacon that never seems to get brighter.

At least the wagon is lighter now. A third of the rations I started with are gone. Too bad the power cell was more than half the payload, even at the beginning of this trek.

I wake up for the fourth time with the tastes of salt and soil in my mouth, and I cannot hear anything. I'm face down on the ground. My shoulders lift once, then droop again. I wonder why my body isn't getting up. In my mind, I stand as far away from myself as I can, and observe in a detached way this prone creature who does not stand, does not move. My hear-rate, already sluggish with apathy, slows more.


Johnny doesn't want to get up for school. His mother is ready to coax the family's sheepdog into jumping on Johnny's bed. She reaches to place a dog treat on her son's pillow, but his eyes snap open, looking directly into hers, and her hand withdraws.

"Time to get ready for school, Jon."
"I went to school yesterday."
"Well, school is open again today, so you have to go."
"I went the day before that, too. And the day before that. And the day before--"
"That was Sunday, you didn't go to school Sunday."
She looks at the clock. No hurry yet. She clears the biggest toys from the middle of Jon's room.
"Sunday doesn't count. Weekends are illusions."
"How's that?"
"They just trick us into thinking the rest of the days aren't the same."
"You've been in the seventh grade for less than three months. Where are you getting this from?"
Jon lies still, watching the line where the far wall joins the ceiling.
"You can't help growing up, Jon, and no one can help summer being over." She leans down and kisses his forehead. "But if you can live through the boring old dull days, you'll make it to another summer."

Jon watches her pick up the laundry basket and leave the room, then looks into a corner of the room and thinks about next summer: the bike trails and pool parties. the barbecues and bonfires. The tree-climbing and baseball-playing under the blazing overhead sun that never seems to set.


When I open my eyes, I am facing away from the light, but still it appears clearly in my mind, dimmer than ever, but undeniable. The image in my head consumes my attention, and I can only see the beacon. When I blink, sight restored, the tower's light remains paramount. I'm already walking, feet already moving under me, subverting my conscious intentions, carrying me towards the tower.

I was numb at first, but not anymore. But I keep going the same way, guided by the only thing I can see... the only thing there is to see.

I love this book. The 3am one. Even a mere 4 exercises into it, I can tell each one has a high replay value.

Labels: 3am, excuses, fiction, writing