Marsbert
03-13-05, 01:06PM
we had to pick a word from the dictionary, and using it's various definitions, tell a story, and this is my first draft:
If (conj.) 1. a. In the event that: let’s say, in the event that everything you put to paper came alive with truth, bursting off the page, a masturbating unicorn blazoned by a fire that is inching its frozen claws around your mind’s eye, would you venture into that terrifying suicide of picking up the pen? In the event that, you wrote about fire and brimstone, and your fingers cracked and quaked through your soul and your skin flaked off in tiny puddles by your eyes, smoke billowed from under your nails or from the dried crust of blood where hanging skin had been yanked off by a nervous heart, would you be afraid? You’d still write? You’d laugh, tears snapping off at the root of your brain, seeping inward to infest your medulla oblongata with an undyingly loud roar of disgust because of that block. b. Granting that: your bowels screeched with the burning of a thousand millions of humming birds when you wrote the word flutter, out of the block it came it did. Granting that you couldn’t write about how your heart shriveled when he moaned the name of some girl whose face looks like the breeding ground for an extended tarantula family, how would you know the pain of not knowing? Granting that it felt like sticking a metallic finger into a light socket when you touched that razor pencil, could you hold your breath until your lungs burst to snatch it up? c. On the condition that: the words were bouncing on your tongue and throbbing your wooden teeth like drums, on the condition that they didn’t want to kill you with their denying mocking smirks, that the dull ache in the back of your right ass cheek didn’t wind its way up to your nose, throbbing and vibrating through your eye sockets, that your lips weren’t stitched shut by the invisible thread of that dreaded block, how could you dare to live without the danger of life? 2. Although possibly, even though: let’s say, although possibly, everything you put to paper came true on the wrong side of the migrating block. The wrong side of life, like that forgotten Semetary not made for us. Possibly, the possibility, the possibility of writing love and the white blood cell paper turning red as a seeping earth and hard as rigor mortis, as the l and the v quiver violently in their spots while o and e reach across to strangle each other, mousey voices screaming shrill dirty words that stick to your hair. 3. Whether: whether or not, here it comes. Here it comes to pull at your pubes and stick pins under your fingernails. Whether or not you have the courage to fight back with a brass shield embossed with vodka, spitting your anger in drops of acid out of your moldy lungs, letting the coldness from your guts vomit itself up through your nipples and hit that acidy anger with a loud crack thud that shatters your cranium in 5 places. 4. Indicating a wish: oh how you might wish for the power of this magical tool to make the words come alive and perform your whimsical fairy take desires. To make them dance when you play 80’s music and cry when you sing along with that damned hell to fire country song of shame, to make them strip and fondle themselves when you are all alone on a Saturday night and have watched too much porn. To make the words jump when you command and to play their only vengeful God. What a wish that would be, if and only if.
If (conj.) 1. a. In the event that: let’s say, in the event that everything you put to paper came alive with truth, bursting off the page, a masturbating unicorn blazoned by a fire that is inching its frozen claws around your mind’s eye, would you venture into that terrifying suicide of picking up the pen? In the event that, you wrote about fire and brimstone, and your fingers cracked and quaked through your soul and your skin flaked off in tiny puddles by your eyes, smoke billowed from under your nails or from the dried crust of blood where hanging skin had been yanked off by a nervous heart, would you be afraid? You’d still write? You’d laugh, tears snapping off at the root of your brain, seeping inward to infest your medulla oblongata with an undyingly loud roar of disgust because of that block. b. Granting that: your bowels screeched with the burning of a thousand millions of humming birds when you wrote the word flutter, out of the block it came it did. Granting that you couldn’t write about how your heart shriveled when he moaned the name of some girl whose face looks like the breeding ground for an extended tarantula family, how would you know the pain of not knowing? Granting that it felt like sticking a metallic finger into a light socket when you touched that razor pencil, could you hold your breath until your lungs burst to snatch it up? c. On the condition that: the words were bouncing on your tongue and throbbing your wooden teeth like drums, on the condition that they didn’t want to kill you with their denying mocking smirks, that the dull ache in the back of your right ass cheek didn’t wind its way up to your nose, throbbing and vibrating through your eye sockets, that your lips weren’t stitched shut by the invisible thread of that dreaded block, how could you dare to live without the danger of life? 2. Although possibly, even though: let’s say, although possibly, everything you put to paper came true on the wrong side of the migrating block. The wrong side of life, like that forgotten Semetary not made for us. Possibly, the possibility, the possibility of writing love and the white blood cell paper turning red as a seeping earth and hard as rigor mortis, as the l and the v quiver violently in their spots while o and e reach across to strangle each other, mousey voices screaming shrill dirty words that stick to your hair. 3. Whether: whether or not, here it comes. Here it comes to pull at your pubes and stick pins under your fingernails. Whether or not you have the courage to fight back with a brass shield embossed with vodka, spitting your anger in drops of acid out of your moldy lungs, letting the coldness from your guts vomit itself up through your nipples and hit that acidy anger with a loud crack thud that shatters your cranium in 5 places. 4. Indicating a wish: oh how you might wish for the power of this magical tool to make the words come alive and perform your whimsical fairy take desires. To make them dance when you play 80’s music and cry when you sing along with that damned hell to fire country song of shame, to make them strip and fondle themselves when you are all alone on a Saturday night and have watched too much porn. To make the words jump when you command and to play their only vengeful God. What a wish that would be, if and only if.