Note: It’s not going to be poetry this week, folks. I got really sick and am really behind on my submission for #StrangeLit. Also, I found myself rescuing a kitten yesterday (We can only foster him until he’s old enough for solids/strong enough, though. Anyone interested in adopting? We live in Quezon City, Philippines). And I’m still sick. So I didn’t manage to write any poetry, even surreal ones involving cows and chiffon.
But what I DID manage to do was transcribe and edit a short prose piece I did care of an exercise in Wonderbook, which, by the way, is a book all creatives should have. Buy a copy on Amazon or Book Depository today! Totally worth it.
This particular snippet was inspired by a weird image. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And feel free to write stuff based on this image too.
“Why, Mr. Worde! I certainly did not expect you to call upon me,” Mr. Painte said with a finny flourish. His scales winked in the lamplight, making his spots dance. “Did someone die?”
Mr. Worde narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin. The cockatiels on his shoulders fluffed their feathers in aggression. “Regrettably, not, Mr. Painte,” he murmured. I called upon you because…hm. Mr. Penne was correct.”
The giant fish of imagination somehow managed to blink. “Beg pardon?”
“Have you looked at a mirror lately? Far be it for me to show regard for you, but your spots have been…” Mr. Worde sucked at his teeth. “Distressingly ORGANIZED.”
Mr. Painte let out a keening sound as he whipped his head around to the mirror mounted on the den’s door. He hopped around the fat old man of logic’s book piles and ink pots to get closer look.
“Oh no. Oh no! How could this happen? My beautiful chaos is gone?”
“Curious indeed,” Mr. Worde responded as he adjusted the perfect circle above his head. “I have never seen such precision on you. Could it be that someone is attempting to shape imagination?”
“This is not shaping! This is controlling,” the fish said with an angry fin flip.
“Control is not always so bad,” the heavyset man points out, smoothing down his vest. The birds have moved down to his elbows, perfectly balanced, having calmed down. “I am not that horrible, yes? But then you…you are not me, and I suppose it is rather distressing.”
Mr. Painte looked at him with suspicion. “Mr. Worde? Did you just imagine my feelings? And…” he minnowed through the sea of paper. “How long have you had those birds on your suit?”
“Er, well-observed,” the man conceded with a tug of his beard. “I have become increasingly fanciful over the last few months. It is like someone–a lot of someones–decided that they can forego structure. I feel so very IMPRACTICAL. I assumed it was a phase, but…”
“But then Mr. Penne told you what was happening to me,” the fish finished. “This is nothing to blow bubbles at. But what do we do?”
“Well,” a throat was cleared as gills beat open and closed. There was a moment of silence. “I suppose we have to see the humans,” Mr. Worde hedged.
“I suppose,” Mr. Painte muttered as he looked forlornly at his symmetrical spots. “It can’t be helped. When do we leave?”
The rotund man pulled his halo low over his eyes with a wry grin. And then, they were gone.