Creative Chaos

A flash fiction story written for Theatre Cloud’s Tell a tale in 500 words – just a bit of fun

The creators were having a good day, they; since ‘the creator’ exists in a multitude of parallel dimensions and therefore were one and many at the same time; were having fun.

Well, I say they exist in parallel dimensions, but today the creators felt very creative indeed and decided to take up platting. What had previously been possible and impossible at the same time, depending upon which particular parallel dimension you might be visiting; had suddenly become probable, actual and inconceivable all at the same time.

The creators took the strands of newly formed chaos, and from them invented a small god, whom they named Sod; they released him into the platted strands of his own space-time dis-continuum and gave the little chap a bit of creative ability of his own, just for fun.

Sod quickly developed a rather mischievous spirit and was not, as many people may expect the origin of the ‘law of Sod,’ but at the same time he was, and again he only probably could have been, but the evidence is circumstantial.

Sod went about the intricate web of the multiverse; sprinkling small showers of awareness here and there and small showers of total unawareness there and here.

Awareness is generally thought of as affecting sentient beings, but since the possible and impossible had now become entwined with the probable; awareness now had a whole new range of impossibilities to play with.

Money for example, became aware of the rich and the poor, and decided to make some changes; this became apparent when wallets emptied themselves of their contents as rich people walked through poor areas of town. People, who had previously had nothing, could suddenly buy food for themselves and their families; whilst those who used to keep their money in their wallets until the moths had died; took up a new hobby of accusing the poor of theft, whilst being totally unable to prove anything.

Supermarkets found their huge profits dwindling, although they didn’t collapse completely; whilst small corner shops suddenly thrived. Everyone found that they were paying their taxes, both the workers and the multinational companies. There was increasingly enough money available for new, affordable housing for the homeless, and medical care for everybody; even the nature reserves and sanctuaries got enough funding to make things sustainable for wildlife.

The creators looked in the mirror and saw there a puzzled look staring back at them.

“What on earth have we done” they asked themselves.

“You appear to have twisted fate as well as reality” Sod answered “and I will get the blame for it.

Well it doesn’t seem to have worked out too badly, the creators thought; perhaps we should do more creative things; “Anyone fancy knitting, or crochet?”

Sod put his head in his hands in desperation, knowing that what was to come would give him a reputation beyond anyone’s comprehension. He looked at the world through the cracks between his fingers and quietly chuckled to himself, grinning mischievously.

 

Advertisements

Love the dark

A flash fiction story written for the writers forum Sept 16 competition inspired by a photograph.

They hurried to get home, turn on the light; banish the darkness. They were people of the light; darkness held no comfort for them. They eradicated darkness; producing artificial brightness in their homes, entertaining themselves with visions created through light producing technology. Light was mesmerising, addictive, essential to what they thought of as happiness.

They feared darkness, imagining it to be filled with evil creatures and death; they did not study the dark as they did with light. They knew all about light waves and even soundwaves but no-one understood dark-waves and their power. So it was that darkness grew in strength; for in every attempt to produce more light, they simply created more dark. It was a natural balance, wherever light was, there were shadows; the brighter the light, the deeper and darker the shadows became.

Darkness was waiting; in time it would get its people back. A time would come when all the cleverness used to dispel it; all the energy needed to produce the light, would be ever more quickly consumed, until darkness would return in gently rippling waves to lap again over the minds of its people. Only then would they understand; only when they had no choice but to accept the darkness, would they realise that they had needed it all along.

Every wave of the ocean rippling with starlight was only evident because it was surrounded by the darkness; every colour of the rainbow was defragmented by equal spectrums of darkness that lay behind. Once upon a time everything had been dark; until light was created no-one even noticed. Until light was created everyone found happiness in their sleeping dreams, and in their waking hours they thrilled in the sensations of touch, and fragrance and whispered sound.

Some were beginning to understand, some were seeking solitude and nature; going out into the wild places where light was limited and they could lie in the grass and look up into the heavens. Of course they were mesmerised by the stars; those pinpricks of light that were only visible because of the pure darkness that surrounded them in its great vastness.

The time was coming, it would be soon.

“Why did you do that to them?” The darkness asked.

“To teach them the difference between good and evil” a voice replied. “It is better to light a candle…”

“It would be better to love the dark.”

Just Write

Writing for publication can be stressful, time-consuming and heartbreaking when the rejection letters come in. The answer to this – don’t write for publication, just enjoy writing and don’t have that pressure, although it would be nice to get something published one day, there is no obligation to have your work published and if you can write prolifically for the sheer enjoyment of it then you will have a collection of work that sometime in the future you can collate, edit and if you want to – then you can send it to a few relevant publishers to get their views on what you have produced. Sometimes you don’t even have to do that – I’ve had quite a number of little things published because the publisher has asked if they could include them in a book and sometimes they will come back and ask you if you could produce more along the same lines. So I’m hardly a successful well-known author but I do have a fair bit of published work.

The reason I write is because I enjoy it. I always thought that I’d like to be a writer, but never felt good enough or perhaps I just wasn’t confident enough to give up my day job to take a chance on it. I read hundreds of books about how to start writing – that was a heavy investment. I bought course after course on how to become a writer – another heavy investment, but one day I came to realise that all this book and course buying was simply prevarication and that I would probably never become a “real writer”.

Then one day someone upset me by misrepresenting something I’d put on social media. I was furious and I found myself in front of my computer; anger flowing through my veins like lava from an enormous volcanic eruption, the flames of destruction vomiting from my very brain cells and it all got channeled onto the page in front of me; it was terrific, it really was “terrible and horrific”. This was my first bit of exciting dramatic fiction and it flowed for a day and a half. This wasn’t me writing about me, this was me writing about the pent up frustration with authority that had been building; not just throughout my lifetime but for centuries. The bile and frustration spewed onto the page almost incinerating the computer with its sheer passion and truth.

I’d found something special about writing that I wish I had found about fifty years earlier – writing is good for the soul and a fantastic way of dealing with stress and frustration. You can do things in a fictional world that you could never do in reality, at least not without being locked up pretty quickly.

From then on I’ve been writing on a regular basis, not every day but damn near every day. I find myself becoming more and more creative. I can sit in a public place and without knowing who people are, can turn them into fictional characters with their own intriguing story just waiting to be told. On other days I may write a poem, it might not start out as one but it may end up as one. I might write a prayer, a limerick or a short story, but the point is I will just write. I’ll write whatever comes into my head at the time and when that doesn’t work and there seems to be nothing there, then I’ll go back to one of my stories that are developing over time. I have at least three different storylines on the go at any time. When one isn’t working one of the others will be and if none of them are working for me then it’s time for something new.