At the Desk of the Writer

Here's something that I started last week, just so you can see what's been coming out of my head these days:

Gordon had found recently, that when he went back in his mind to find the threads of stories he'd been saving, they weren't there. Instead there was a wall. He'd walk back and forth trying to find a hole to crawl through, hoping somebody would show up and tell him what was going on. But nothing happened. Well, there are some flowers, he thought to himself, thinking that maybe he could make do with the few story materials that lay outside the wall. But all he could come up with was one lousy sentence: "The bubblegum stuck stubbornly to the red rubber ball." Gordon kicked the wall a few times. Things tend to look different when you approach then in a new way so he left to pick up some beer with Louie and Fizz at the Plaid Pantry.

Meanwhile, things inside the wall were changing. The story about the girl who lost her arm was mixing up with a story about a robotic panda who escaped from the zoo. And the list of questions that Gordon had been forming about travel (what is a travel experience? what is the ultimate point?) were rearranging themselves with his statement of anti-purpose (I live to eat the bi-products of animals that live to eat mine...). "Listen," Yalpa Lester, Gordon's most popular, most used character was saying. "I've decided, after staring at all of these lines of obvious latent homosexual poetry, that I'd like to take up with a man." The two dimensional ladies from the epic post-college trip to Mexico story waved their paper-thin arms in jealousy for a while, but eventually fell into a heap on the floor. Yalpa eyed the underdeveloped young pirate, of a series of short stories that Gordon had never completed. "So tell me," Yalpa cooed and grabbed a drink from the pirate's treasure chest. "What do you see in your future?"

On the other side of the wall Gordon was pouring Sessions down his throat. There was something about the stubby bottle mixed with the light bubbliness of that beer that felt very satisfying. Louie was batting at the kooshball that lived on the 4th finger of his left hand. It was getting really annoying.