kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"AndSoHeQuit.0"

words

And so he quit. Every time, he quit. Every time, but time implies a starting. Every time, he started. Thirty minutes he had to fill, every day; looking back thirty years, he'd had a lot to say. Sisyphean undertaking, every time he said it it got ground up by the sieve into finer grains; age made his fingers tremble and his message, his messages, everything he tried to think, invent--was lighter, flimsier, seemed to trickle over his palsied hands and through his palsied mind, off his palsied tongue; every thing he wanted to say was so familiar, perhaps he'd said it all. He'd certainly said as much.

And so he quit. Every idea was done, done by people who had their whole lives to focus on just one idea; and he had to have a new one every day, so poorly crafted by comparison as an imbecile playing with blocks. Look, mommy, he wanted to say--but his mom had passed away and his thousands of listeners were not easily impressed. His wife didn't listen to radio, his children had listened to him their whole lives. Look, his mind screamed, his lips mumbled. He'd said that too.

And so he quit. Winding down, he was winding down, thirty minutes, thirty years. No idea novel means every one's fair game, though nobody wants to hear you whine, nobody wants to hear the same old thing. Try to inject some humor, but keep it serious. Bring it home to them, and move them; transport them. Make sure the journey is swift but not over too soon; make sure it's easy enough but don't let them fall asleep. He juggled parables and codicils, and maybe a bit of Nyquil--non-drowsy, though. It was all too much. The same too much he did over and over. How many times could he say the same old thing?

And so he quit. His voice was rough, his eyes shot; his demeanor haggard. But--thirty minutes filled. He'd released the unicorns once again.

And so he quit.