The house looks good. Needs a little plaster but the walls are  sound.  Can’t say why I care much anyway, it’s just mortar and adobe bricks stacked up in place for a few decades or so.  I think for a moment. The price of dust, figuratively speaking, is around thirty pieces of silver.  A done deal – no returns accepted.

———-

I return after a week’s absence!  Superlative apologies for not being around last week – I was flying instruments on balloons over explosions meant to simulate volcanoes.  Has life ever been this good?  Anyway…Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.

I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.  The weekly photo that inspired this story is below:

He took a deep breath, and looked out past the incongruous sycamore to the vast horsetail forests beyond.

“But we did something that none of them foresaw.  Instead of conquering space, we conquered time.”

He pointed towards the hotel behind him.  “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow time travelers all, I give you the Carboniferous Period.  Breathe deep, but don’t light a cigarette – the oxygen’s a little richer in these climes.   And mind the dragonflies – they’ll take your hat right off your head.”

———-

Yes!  Despite a little format change, this is the same old Friday Fictioneers!  Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.

I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.  The weekly photo that inspired this story is below:

Here’s my story this week.  I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.

A King of Infinite Space

I hear them the ossified thoughts packed side by side whispering intimations of immortality to the mystics the bored and the lost.  And I who am sometimes all three scrawl in secret beneath the covers these flashlit pages that I will slip between two tomes to rest and whisper to you if you still have ears to hear.  So brush off the dust and let me tell you my story locked in time but living in memory this simple soul swimming in the umbra of the real thrown from darkness to darkness as in a mirror, darkly.

Here’s my story this week.  I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.

Deseret

The survivors of the blast had told him about the flash, how lucky they were to make it. They hadn’t, though.  They were the walking dead.  It just took them a few days to lie down, one by one.

He picked up the old wasp nest and crushed it in his fist, then looked up at the golden figure on the topmost spire of the temple.  “I can’t say I believe in you much anymore, Moroni,” he said. “But if you’re really up there, why not give that horn a toot?”
The ground trembled, then lay still.

Here’s my story this week.  I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.

Out of the Weather

Hey man, thanks for coming over and helping me move that thing. It was super heavy so good call with the ramp.  Iron rusts, you know, just withers away to crumbly chips on the ground, so I figured I should put it here instead of leaving it under the mulberry tree.  In other news I decided his gravestone ought to be kinda weather resistant so I told them to carve it out of quartzite.  You’ll be able to read the name and date for a million years, they said.  That’ll be long enough, I said.

Here’s my story this week.  I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.

April’s Way

As she brushed past him between classes, she slipped him a note.  Above the eraser marks and crossed out text she’d finally written:
“Meet me by the old tree along Eden Prairie Road.  I think we should get to know each other.”
At three thirty he pushed open the double doors and walked out past the suburbs with their ruler-straight lawns and carefully trimmed rose bushes till the houses trailed off and the tree stood lonely and tall.  There she was, back towards the town, gazing out at the land falling away far and green and wild.

Here’s my story this week.  I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.

A New Life

I remember my father leaving one night, just grabbed a lantern and off he went.
Set all the dogs barking like crazy when he came back around four in the morning.
Said he’d finally found a beginning for his book, kept talking about some little hill and leopards and Roman ghosts and God knows what else.
Never did understand what happened to him out there, so eventually I got my courage up and asked him where he’d gone that night.
It ain’t a place you can find by looking, he said.  You’ll understand one day.

One  issue that bothered me from middle school onward was this: how do I characterize the motives and desires of the ‘other’?   Another, deeper issue concerned me even more:  how could one part of me want something, and the other part not want something?  In other words, how was it possible for an “individual” to want two things at once?  Finally, a question that emerged more and more as I got older:  what does the act of communicating in Angosey really entail, given that I am more or less talking to myself?  What truth value comes from this ‘perfect diary’ I have created?

Angosey first went to work categorizing varieties of the ‘other.’  Since I was an adolescent boy continually in and out of crushes, romantically-tinged friendships, and relationships, this ‘other’ typically involved girls.  I discovered three categories: Algayaltha (Aphrodite-like), Emralday (a character in opposition with herself), and Lazouley (Athena-like).   The three are arranged in increasing emotional distance – Algayaltha is the most human, Lazouley was the most remote and difficult to understand.  While this was an interesting way of looking at things, it was nothing but a projection of my recent experiences in the girl realm as opposed to a clear basis for psychology.

When writing in Angosey, I discovered a solution for another, more important problem: how to describe situations where I wanted two mutually exclusive things.  For example: wanting to be social while simultaneously feeling anxious and shy.  Another example:  being  a writer (creative) and a scientist (analytic).

My result was to write as three different aspects: Ashrayaga (the builder of fences), Dantayaga (the dreamer), and Renayaga (the worldly).

Ashrayaga is the character under whose auspices I am writing now.  He is analytic and  remote.  His desire is to examine and categorize.  He is hostile towards sentimentality and emotion.

Dantayaga is the first character I came up with.  He is the force that drives Angosey, but probably not the one who wrote down the grammar and vocabulary.  He loves beauty, art, and harmony.  He tends to get very little done, but he provides the inspiration for my creativity and probably is what makes me tolerable to other people.

Renayaga is the last character I came up with.  If Ashrayaga is Apollo, Renayaga is Dionysus.  He doesn’t say much, but he’ll definitely drink a few too many with you.

This  trinitarian concept of the soul help me understand how I  could feel mutually exclusive things, and gave me a more balanced perspective of myself as I made my way through adolescence and young adulthood.  While I had little use of these three after graduating from college, I actually refer to them quite a bit more often now than I have over the last few years.  Usually this is a reminder to turn Ashrayaga off when I leave the geophysics laboratory – probably one of the stranger “don’t bring work home with you” concepts that you’ll hear!

After taking Philosophy of Language in college, I started wondering what sort of meaning I was generating every time I wrote in Angosey.  If I am the only person in the planet who can read this, am I really communicating?  This was particularly problematic because I never intended for others to read some of my writing – hence the utility of a secret language in the first place.

Then I considered diary writers.  I assume most of them do not write in their diary so that other people can eventually read them.  Instead, the diary is a form of communication across time – reaching out to a future version of yourself. Angosey, then, is my message in a bottle, floating in the twin oceans of self and time.

Here’s my story this week.  I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.

Dust and Mud

Boy, sure is dusty.
I hear you.  Good to see clouds up there for a change.  Man gets tired of blue skies after a while.
Yeah, well, I don’t glance up too much.
Never knew your type to watch the weather, come to think of it.
Nope, keep the old eyes on the ground, more or less.  Say, can you flip the spigot?  Can’t reach it from here.
Yep, there you are.  Drop it in the tank, will you?  Ground’s getting all muddy.
In the tank, clank.  Say, you got any more of them carrots?

Here’s my story this week.  I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.

Anachronic

“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s called a television.”
“Whatever.  I think you should find a new hobby.”
“But its like looking back in time!” she said.
“And what is…that?”
“A plant.”
“Gross,” I said.  “Did you use soil or something?”
“Yeah.”
I took out some sanitizer and wiped it all over my hands.  I glanced at the television again.
“That image is so empty, it sorta freaks me out.  Where’s all the people?”
I looked out the window.  Towers thrust through the clouds below us, gleaming in the sunset.
“Seriously, turn that television thing off.”