Click-Clack-Clock

Click-clack-clock, this is the sound that words make when they come together.

LITERACITY

It is always nice to have someone review your work, particularly if it is seen in a positive light and especially if one had also been considering to quit writing non-mainstream subject matter.

One such blog is Literacity. I don't mention this blogger merely for the fact that he has shown an appreciation for my own work, but because he keeps the art of weird fiction writing alive by being a passionate reader and thorough critic.

Although the site is fairly new, I do foresee this blog becoming an invaluable resource and reference to stranger works of fiction that might otherwise be hard to find. It's well written with clever and insightful observations that challenge what many might term the commericial market.

If you have trouble seeking out creative works that pertain to unusual tastes, then please bookmark Literacity. Check it out!

Strange Drurgs: Murshrooms

While I was trekking across the fields of the naturally hostile countryside looking for bumble bees to kill, I encountered a strange looking fungi. 'What are you?' I asked the mushroom inquisitively, 'I have never encountered any of your kind before.' It remained silent.

I scanned the vicinity for people then bent my knees and lowered the upper torso that bore my head towards the lifeform. 'What the fuck are you?' I spat impatiently. The mushroom audaciously stood it's ground. I shook a tight fist at the mushroom and growled at it.

'Then if you will not tell me, then I must eat you!' In one smooth action, I swooped a hand through the air, plucked it from the ground and fed it into my oral interface. 'Ha, ha, ha, I am chewing you, I am chewing you!' I said as it squished between my teeth.

I skipped home merrily, laughing all the way back.

I was standing in the kitchen looking at three of my close friends. They were staring at me with jaws wide open.

'What the hell are you doing?' said Jane with a mixture of concern and confusion in her voice as her eyes gestured towards my hand.

In my hand, I was holding a bar of soap. The next minute, I was eating the bar of soap and singing Christmas carols backwards.

'Jesus H fucking Christ, he's gone completely nuts!' said Bob.

I found myself in the bathroom smearing shit all over my body while singing 'Sweet Caroline'. I laughed a crazy laugh, and I thought to myself that this is what crazy people go through; I'm going crazy!

It was pitch black on the other side of the window, I was sitting in a bathrobe on the couch with Jennifer and Jane on either side. I was clutching a pen and scribbling frantically in a sketchpad.

'What is he doing?' asked Jane to Jennifer.

Then my voice spoke, 'I'm silly guy.'

I looked at the sketchpad, and watched the drawing evolve before my eyes, the pen had a mind of it's own. The scratching noise that it made with the paper started to form music, a percussive rhythm. Another sound jumped in; my other hand was using an eraser to add another layer of noise. I closed my eyes, and felt the music overwhelm me. Suddenly, a scream, I opened my eyes. I was eating a cigarette while staring at the drawing that I had made, it was a picture of me having sex with Jennifer. A hand grabbed the cigarette and pulled it out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, a bunch of strangers dressed in black had entered my house. They looked like eastern european bohemian beatniks. 'Who are you?' I whispered weakly. They sat around the kitchen table, harrassing me with their little beady eyes while they sneered.

'I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me!' I croaked.

'He's just a poor boy from a poor family!' they choired in response.

A face appeared before me, I was staring at a pair of closed eyelids. The owner of the face was Jennifer and she was moaning; I was having sex with Jennifer! 'I must make a baby!' said my voice, 'I must make more of me!' I heard myself roar.

I was standing before a huge audience in a theatre, they applauded rapturously, and I took a bow. I was hunched over the bathroom sink splashing cold water onto my face as I stood up from the bow. I looked into a mirror before me and a haggard old man looked back at me. 'What's happening to me?' I asked.

'This is life. This is the stage.' He zoomed out, and I could see that he was now standing very far from me, yet I could still hear him talk as if he were against my ear, 'Life is one big play. Do you like to play?'

Elvis: The Scientist

Elvis is not dead, he merely disappeared.

Many people do not know that Elvis, the legendary singer, had an IQ that makes the smartest humans on this planet look like amoeba. This is the truth that even the most diehard fans would never know about this man.

He faked his own death, he had been planning it for years; while he performed those songs, he plotted and schemed. Elvis was one of those rare gifted individuals who had a unique ability to multitask his thoughts. During the first live performance of 'Suspicious Minds', he had conceived the concept of interstellar travel, devised a space craft and calculated the time that it would take to reach Alpha Centauri.

Priscilla would often hear Elvis screaming like a maniac in his study. The mind of the undiscovered genius was at odds with itself. 'Why O' Why?' he would implore to his wife as if she were a higher entity.

'What is it my dear? What is this fury that has possessed you?' she would say.

He would curl his fingers as if seized by some horrible affliction that caused fingers to curl up, 'The technology!'

'What do you mean?'

'My darling, I have all the money in the world, yet, the technology does not exist... I cannot... cannot... do it... It's too much! Too much!' He would grab his skull between his hands, collapse onto his knees and begin sobbing.

The Creative Edge

The keyboard hasn't felt the same lately. I loved the feel and the sound of the keys, the tip tap tappety tap, when the creativity was at full flow. What have I been doing wrong?

I was lying in my bed, 3am. Sprang out of bed, what am I doing? It's too early to go to sleep! Since when did I start going to bed that early? I have all eternity to allow my soul the wandering pleasures of the dreamworld after I have left this mortal coil, NO, NO! I beat my head violently against the wall, trying to save what creativity I had left in that skull. Wake up, wake up.

That is where the secret and source of imagination was, where it always was. It was not some hidden treasure beyon my sight, it had been standing like a golden phalice before my eyes. I was a fool to think for a while that I was a morning person; I am most productive in the wee early hours of the day. Fuck sleep. Let's get some stuff done before I die, okay! Life is too short, let's type it out.

This is it, I am starting to feel the love of the keyboard again. Is it coming back to me? This is familiar once again, the territory of the night authors. They sleep in their computer chair with fingers rested upon keys, then the vigor of imagination jolts them to life.