June 8, 2009

So! I realized about an hour before midnight tonight that I hadn’t scheduled anything to update with tonight. I didn’t want to pull out more old stuff, so I went over to a wonderful site called oneword.com. The gist is that each day it gives you one word and sixty seconds to write something about that word. After sixty seconds, whatever you wrote is uploaded to a big daily list of stuff various of people wrote about that one word that day. I started doing one of these tonight and realized that it would make a pretty lame and short entry here, so I decided I’d instead take the daily word and do three creative things with it in an hour, instead. The result was a bit of flash fiction, a really short poem, and a vaguely xkcd-esque comic. All three after the jump. The word, by the way, was “Feather.”


Every night for sixteen years he slept on the same part of the wooden floor. His only support was a small pillow that someone in a passing car once threw at his head on the way to work. In his mind, it was a blessing. It made the abandoned shack more comfortable; almost palatable, though by his fifth year he had become desensitized to any sort of discomfort he could derive from the old house. In fact, after some time he took joy in his almost omniscient knowledge of the place—he knew of every splinter in each wall, as well as the best parts of the floor for sitting and thinking. He knew what parts of the walls were hollow, too. Sometimes, at night, he would pretend that there was something in those hollow spaces: Treasure, a leftover stash of one hundred dollar bills from a drug deal gone awry, a family of mice that he would befriend. After so many years some hollow spaces had been punched out, leaving only empty holes. Sometimes, you see, he wanted so much for the stories to be real. And once—once!—a mouse did wander in, through one of the holes where some light shone through on less cloudy days, and it stayed with him until it realized there was no food to be found. But other than that mouse, the room was barren with the exception of its own small spots of destruction, in the forms of holes and bits of wood shaved off the wall. Barren, except for that pillow, his pillow, the one that he would slump his head onto every night. As he lied down, feathers would shoot out a short distance from the pillow, out of the well-worn holes in its sides. Before he fell asleep, he would clumsily stuff the softly expelled feathers back into the sides of the pillow with each hand, carefully, so as to not leave one lying on the floor, for fear that the feather would not be still there in the morning.


We fly
Insofar as
We fall.

But even so:
You are flying
Only once
You have time
To realize it.

And finally:


One Response to “”

  1. Mariah said

    Ack you know oneword! One of my all-time favorite websites. I love reading through other people’s writing… it’s amazing how many different responses a single word can inspire.

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