This little piece of weirdness came out of a five minute exercise:
Sometimes I type. I sit with my hands perfectly spaced, little j and f nubs under my index fingers. Sometimes I pretend to type and I sit with my hands poised as though ready for action, my brow furrowed as if I had been caught just that second in the middle of the very groundbreaking thought that would set the cardboard manufacturing industry on its ear.
I like to imagine everyone thinking, “Oh, how productive he is. That Johnson is a go-getter, he is.”
Tap tap tap.
Sometimes I type, but without intent. I just tappity tappity tappity with abandon, my mind off in the farthest reaches of time and space.
Sometimes the letters clump together and make all sorts of pretty shapes on the screen. Sometime words spontaneously appear within the noise. Sometimes they tell me things.
Tap tap tap.
I should do something with this some day.
Pero worked his paws over the carbon tip of the matchstick, licking and smoothing, licking and smoothing. He paused to rub at his black eyes and push back his whiskers. When the stick was sharp, its tip damp, he lifted it to resume his drawing on the box in front of him.
General Cow looked iconic and angular, blocked out in light carbon strokes, hooves crushing squirming masses of cats and snakes and hawks. Her head was lifted with purpose toward the black clouds, as if in rapture. In the background Crusader Raven bowed his head approvingly.
For my 5 min exercises, i usually pick a verb or an adjective, and a noun. It’s probably pretty obvious what the pair were for this 5 min prompt.
Uncle Buddy was the kind of man who would attend functions in his best overalls and walk on the street side of a woman. He was the kind who would hold open doors for older men.
He wrote letters to my sister and I with tiny stubs of pencil delicately clutched in his enormous hands. He told us fanciful tales of farm life, each wrapped like a gift in a translucent shawl of gentle lies.
The hero of his tales was always the Dizzy Pig. The Dizzy Pig was a coward of epic proportions, a sneak, a scoundrel. The Dizzy Pig often meant well for his brethren at the barnyard, but something in his nature kept him from living a life of Christian honesty.
The Dizzy Pig was lonely sometimes. Sometimes he was jovial and mischievous. Often the Dizzy Pig missed my sister and me, for we didn’t visit nearly often enough and then eventually not at all. Long after our parents stopped visiting Uncle Buddy, he wrote us still.
Uncle Buddy was sometimes impatient with the Dizzy Pig, other times he envied him.
Hmmm… a little more Americana than what i usually do. Dunno if i’ll do anything with this one.