Marrow’s Next Step, Edited

A little housekeeping to start off the day then the good stuff.  A little transposition got me off in my day count at the beginning of this 2009 revival of 1000 Days.  I corrected that yesterday, so you no longer need to worry about the missing 100 days.

I don’t normally resort to gimmicky writing exercises like I did last night when perfectly good blather is to be had by the fire-hoseful.  I enjoy porting artistic practices to my writing where I can.  If you didn’t follow the link in yesterday’s post and then follow the link in that post over to Gorilla Artfare then you should click on this one to see what a skilled artist can do with 30 seconds of time.

Now that I’m back to writing and not doing so much screwing around with the layout I too am annoyed by the purple links and the poorly executed text-color contrast.  Usually my interstitial commentary is grey while the text you’re meant to read is nicely black.  I’ll do something about that when I can.

Last week I promised weekends would be for editing.  Today minus two-hundred days provides me with a day called “Marrow’s Next Step“.

“If you thirst, quench your spirit. Your body will wait.” My forearms lean on the lentil of the low door. I’m adjusting to the light and being upright.

“Is it true,” he asks.

“You cannot know the key and not know the truth.”

“I’m a skeptic, not a coward.”

“There’s a difference?”

I shuffle into my small home, surprised his presence doesn’t feel intrusive. After this many years alone I expected some annoyance. I motion to the barrel and the dipper; he waves a no. Zealot. “When I’m thirsty I don’t kneel.” I dip out two cups and force his into his hands. “Drink it and wait.”

“If you thirst, first quench your spirit. Your body will wait.” I support my weight by pressing my forearms into the lentil of the low door.  My eyes adjust to the darkness inside and my guts to being upright.

“Is it true?” he asks.

I consider dissembling or, more simply, pretending I didn’t hear.  Instead I answer as he before me answered: “You cannot speak the key and also not believe.”

“I’m a skeptic, not an Unbeliever…or a coward.”

“There’s a difference?”

I shuffle into my small home, surprised his presence doesn’t feel intrusive. After so many years alone I expected some annoyance. I pull the dipper from it’s perch on a rafter and  motion to to the water barrel; he flicks his hand to indicate no. Zealot.

“When I’m thirsty I don’t kneel.” I dip out two cups and force his into his hands. “Drink it and wait.”

There wasn’t much text to work with here–this post is the extension of the day’s prior post.  Unsurprisingly it relies on that post for much context.  Mostly I feel the first effort was overly cryptic in the narration.  It’s suitable for the dialog to be cryptic, but not the narrator’s thoughts–at least, not too much.

I’m still not happy about the “Zealot” thought in there, but I’m not sure how to get that across.  This seems like the kind of thing my narrator would immediately think, but not something he’d think much about to get to that conclusion.  So ultimately I’ve got to pre- or post-explain why not drinking the water makes the son a zealot.  It would help if I knew.

Day 331

Day 131: Marrow’s Next Step

Originally here. All posts with the marrow tag.

I’m pressing the crescant to his neck and he’s saying words like magic. Words that feel like they could unbreak a jar, maybe raise the dead.

“The best waters are swift and shallow.” He’s trembling as he chants, “The best waters are swift and shallow.” I realize he doesn’t believe the words, doesn’t trust their power. This makes me angry.

I gave up my daughters and ruined my wife. I burned my parent’s home and salted their orchard. I eat the same meal and swallow the same wine. Every day I guard this gate from nothing and no one comes. I even cut my hair. And he doesn’t believe. I did all of this and he still fears these words have no meaning. He rakes at might unyielding arm. He pleads again, “Please, please. The best waters are swift and shallow.”

In an instant I decide answering this coward is not worth the trades I made. I’m going to release this crux, let the prophesy fail, go back to my cold hearth. He must know his death is next because I feel him swallow through the contact of my weapon on his flesh. His tremors subside. He makes his final breath. He’ll beg for his life of course.

Then I feel like I am falling, like something I can’t explain has happened, like soon this something will hurt very much, but for now I just know something I can’t stop is coming. He’s kicked me in the groin and I am on the ground inhaling air, but unable to exhale.

“I said, ‘The best waters are swift and shallow!’ I’ll be inside when you are ready to complete the couplet.”

Eventually I’ll smile at my son’s return, but for now I’ll just puke.

***

“If you thirst, quench your spirit. Your body will wait.” My forearms lean on the lentil of the low door. I’m adjusting to the light and being upright.

“Is it true,” he asks.

“You cannot know the key and not know the truth.”

“I’m a skeptic, not a coward.”

“There’s a difference?”

I shuffle into my small home, surprised his presence doesn’t feel intrusive. After this many years alone I expected some annoyance. I motion to the barrel and the dipper; he waves a no. Zealot. “When I’m thirsty I don’t kneel.” I dip out two cups and force his into his hands. “Drink it and wait.”

Word count: 143

Day 103: The Balance of Marrow

I’m pressing the crescant to his neck and he’s saying words like magic.  Words that feel like they could unbreak a jar, maybe raise the dead.

"The best waters are swift and shallow."  He’s trembling as he chants, "The best waters are swift and shallow."  I realize he doesn’t believe the words, doesn’t trust their power.  This makes me angry.

I gave up my daughters and ruined my wife.  I burned my parent’s home and salted their orchard.  I eat the same meal and swallow the same wine.  Every day I guard this gate from nothing and no one comes.  I even cut my hair.  And he doesn’t believe.  I did all of this and he still fears these words have no meaning.  He rakes at might unyielding arm.  He pleads again, "Please, please.  The best waters are swift and shallow."

In an instant I decide answering this coward is not worth the trades I made.  I’m going to release this crux, let the prophesy fail, go back to my cold hearth.  He must know his death is next because I feel him swallow through the contact of my weapon on his flesh.  His tremors subside.  He makes his final breath.  He’ll beg for his life of course.

Then I feel like I am falling, like something I can’t explain has happened, like soon this something will hurt very much, but for now I just know something I can’t stop is coming.  He’s kicked me in the groin and I am on the ground inhaling air, but unable to exhale.

"I said, ‘The best waters are swift and shallow!’  I’ll be inside when you are ready to complete the couplet."

Eventually I’ll smile at my son’s return, but for now I’ll just puke.

Word count: 293