March 25, 2014
There is something wrong between me and Mr. Linky. This is NOT my response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s photo prompt. My response to the photo prompt is the middle. So, if you end up here from Mr. Linky, my apologies. This is a much older response to a Sunday prompt!
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She stared off into the middle ground – the point where her long and short vision merged, creating a sort of space warp effect – as if a worm hole/black hole/time tunnel entrance was just out of sight.
She didn’t need to look at the assignment again. She had memorized it; ate it; bled it; drank it; sweat it; breathed it for days. It wasn’t writer’s block, angst, anxiety (angxiesty), repressed memory, know or unknown mental trauma nor procrastination.
What kept the words from coming needed another name; perhaps if she watched herself step through that portal in space she would find the missing descriptor or disappear so completely, she wouldn’t even need to complete the assignment.
She rarely found herself so at loss in a sea of language. Even her own funky, creative spinnaker couldn’t point her in a fair sailing/fair writing direction. It didn’t HAVE to be a literal translation, a text-book take on it. Options had been presented that should have intrigued or engaged her. She had never felt so empty; empty of paragraphs and pages, images and imagery, subtle twists and plot reversals.
Another cup of coffee? Another glass of wine? Another walk? Yoga? Television? Reading? Laundry? Tidying? (what – mind, room, house, world?) Lists? (what sort: ideas; lies; to-dos/to don’ts; distractions/attractions; medications; meditations). She sighed, and tried to pull her focus back from that tempting middle distance beyond which lay Narnia, Earthsea, a galaxy far, far, away, never never land, wonderland, looking glass land . . .
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She clicked published. The post was done. The prompt responded to. She walked away from her laptop. In the darkness of her room, it was a night light. She had lost track of the temporal, corporal. Exhausted and drained, she flopped down on her bed – sidewise, in her street clothes, face unwashed, teeth unbrushed. She thought, “I might lie/lie here forever; or until next Sunday.”
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PS: the post “mlm prompt 43: supernatural lust” was never intended to go live. I published instead of pre-viewed.