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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
March 11, 2008
The narrator of this little story goes to trade in his autumn onomatopoeia (or funny sounds, if you like) at the Bureau of Words, some of them secondhand, some of them brand new. Swish-Cthunk by ~Squeak-the-Freak is a lovely tribute to the sounds that surround us.
Featured by lovetodeviate
Literature Text
Today I went down to the Bureau of Words to trade in my autumn onomatopoeia. Usually I put it off until at least the end of November, but this year the squelch-thud of my boots in the mounds of soggy leaves brought me up sharp. I went home, gathered my dry snaps, crackles and swooshes, as well as the cheerful spthooshk of a water balloon left over from August and headed down to the department. The rain hurried down to meet my umbrella, an excellent winter sound for which I had no words. But that would soon change.
The stooped man at the front desk greeted me with a finger to his lips. "We're running the barnyard tests, so we've got to be very quiet. Get me?"
I nodded. Fortunately, the entire antechamber of the Bureau is soundproofed, so my rubber soled boots made no sound on the white carpeted floor despite leaving a great deal of mud.
"What do you have in mind for me today? I'm here for the seasonal trade-in deal."
"Well, we've got snow falling on cedars, rain dripping into a puddle of slush, and ice skates on a frozen pond on display, as you can see" he whispered, leaning towards me. "But if you've got something specific in mind, we can check the back-catalogue." His voice had the quality of very thin paper.
"How much can I get for these?" I spread my prior acquisitions on the mahogany desk, each making its proper sound as I touched it. A beautiful cacophony of leaves, sunshine, the murmurs of children and crunching gravel filled the room. The man at the front desk picked up a shcwisk and examined it.
"Are these second-hand?" he asked politely.
"A few are from here. Some of them," I blushed, "I made myself."
He smiled beatifically at me. "They're lovely." I felt a warm, silent glow in my chest. A drop of rain fell from the tip of my nose to the desk below, making the quietest of pings as it hit the wood.
We sat down to make a deal. I bought several of the featured items and a couple I needed for a story set in India, but at that point what I really wanted was a little personal. I stammered it out when he asked me if he could get me anything more.
Snick, snick. My eyes rubbed against their sockets.
"Could you," I leaned closer to him, "whisper for me?"
The man at the desk looked at me in confusion - then threw back his head and laughed. Who would have thought such a deep, rich sound could come from so wrinkled a throat? In another room, I thought I heard a rooster answer. He nodded. "But," he cautioned, "a whisper is not onomatopoeia."
"I'm going to use your voice for the winds on cold snowy days, when the trees speak with one another."
A pause. "Yes. Yes, I can do that for you."
The wizard's face crinkled. He lowered his eyes and brought a scrap of yellow paper to his lips. All the things he told that sheet, I couldn't tell you. I only heard the rustle of his voice.
The stooped man at the front desk greeted me with a finger to his lips. "We're running the barnyard tests, so we've got to be very quiet. Get me?"
I nodded. Fortunately, the entire antechamber of the Bureau is soundproofed, so my rubber soled boots made no sound on the white carpeted floor despite leaving a great deal of mud.
"What do you have in mind for me today? I'm here for the seasonal trade-in deal."
"Well, we've got snow falling on cedars, rain dripping into a puddle of slush, and ice skates on a frozen pond on display, as you can see" he whispered, leaning towards me. "But if you've got something specific in mind, we can check the back-catalogue." His voice had the quality of very thin paper.
"How much can I get for these?" I spread my prior acquisitions on the mahogany desk, each making its proper sound as I touched it. A beautiful cacophony of leaves, sunshine, the murmurs of children and crunching gravel filled the room. The man at the front desk picked up a shcwisk and examined it.
"Are these second-hand?" he asked politely.
"A few are from here. Some of them," I blushed, "I made myself."
He smiled beatifically at me. "They're lovely." I felt a warm, silent glow in my chest. A drop of rain fell from the tip of my nose to the desk below, making the quietest of pings as it hit the wood.
We sat down to make a deal. I bought several of the featured items and a couple I needed for a story set in India, but at that point what I really wanted was a little personal. I stammered it out when he asked me if he could get me anything more.
Snick, snick. My eyes rubbed against their sockets.
"Could you," I leaned closer to him, "whisper for me?"
The man at the desk looked at me in confusion - then threw back his head and laughed. Who would have thought such a deep, rich sound could come from so wrinkled a throat? In another room, I thought I heard a rooster answer. He nodded. "But," he cautioned, "a whisper is not onomatopoeia."
"I'm going to use your voice for the winds on cold snowy days, when the trees speak with one another."
A pause. "Yes. Yes, I can do that for you."
The wizard's face crinkled. He lowered his eyes and brought a scrap of yellow paper to his lips. All the things he told that sheet, I couldn't tell you. I only heard the rustle of his voice.
Literature
The First Movement
-
I left my lover on the floor,
arms bent like a lamp cord.
He said to me things were
different looking up;
the ceiling was brighter,
my eyes were lit up.
And he sank into sand tiles,
his hands were raw and waiting,
and waiting.
-
Literature
Fine Print
With all apologies to Mr. Vonnegut.
So it goes.
No one knows that it was a coincidence that Adam caused the apocalypse a year before the world ended in 2008, and thats because everyones dead now. Thats part of the world ending. Heres how it happened.
In 2007, Adam heard about Kurt Vonneguts death on a Sunday News program. In about two minutes, the program had neatly and concisely summed up the writers life and the details of his death, then cut to commercial. Adam had never read any of Vonneguts books or even heard of him before, but he was intrigued.
The next day, Adam went d
Literature
Six Words
My walls are ice; yours, steam.
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Despite the total lack of any sort of poetry or prose in my gallery, I'm more of a writer than an artist. This is just a silly little thing I thought up while walking home from school in the rain.
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