All 2 entries tagged Anti-Narrative

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December 12, 2009

Adventures in Anti–Narrative, part two

We were set an exercise of writing a 600 word story using a list of only 100 words. Only this small part of mine made any sense, and as it turned out that's sense in the loosest sense of the word. But I think there are some nice sentences. Some cheesy ones too.

Fingernail in mouth, he bites and sees the tree, the white bones of the sun, the fire and the night. His tongue is walking the road of an egg. Round. Yellow. He stands and hears the feet of sleep; feathered feet, and black as the bones of mountains. Sleep, says the white-boned moon. But he hears a new foot, fiery and full. This bird has a name. The stars have names. The earth has a name. The egg has been eaten. He walks. The earth under his feet is cold. He walks to the tree and it is sleeping – it doesn’t know. She sits in the teeth of the unknowing tree. A person with black hair, dry hair. Skin like bark, the belly a seed, the heart a root, the fingernail a leaf. The moon burns red, ashy with fire-smoke.

He bites. Blood seeds his tongue. His mouth burns. But the bark is cold and clouds the heart like smoke after fire, like rain across the moon. Who would not swim through that rain? Who would not die in that water? He knows he will sleep and lying warm – the two lying warm, round, full and new – the tongue of sleep names this man, that woman. And they fly.


The post-reading discussion went roughly like this:

Peter: I think that in the first two paragraphs he enters a godlike dream state.

Me: I thought it was about two people making out under a tree. (Pause.) At a barbecue.

Peter: Oh...of course, he's eating an egg!

Me: I don't know why there's a hard-boiled egg at a barbecue to be honest.

Peter: So when you wrote "bird" I imagined a powerful thunder god, but actually you meant a *bird*.

Me: Yeah.


November 30, 2009

Adventures in Anti–Narrative, part one

They will be non-chronological, self-referential, post-modern adventures of course.

To begin, a story about a beard, thus far untitled, because if it is about anything I don't know what it's about. Created using the cutting-stuff-up-like-we-did-when-school-was-full-of-sandpits-and-glitter method in the seminar a little while ago.

Off into a dim, he grew a beard at the soft zero of his chin. Beard throughout carried the ground-near-visible heard distance his teenage there, and to him endlessly earliest childhood which mother prattled tugging where realer dreams from his earliest he could. And after a son moment he height and moaning as he approached, showed him perhaps, the them to grow. Keep himself aware of the warm hardiness and who would was enraptured: strength and became aware maturity he, he had only an authoritarian of all that neat but pubescent thickening most importantly bristled mass by the pubescent burgeoning all that and full-bodied to touch the darkening of each beard. Large chin and darkening gone, was stroking unashamed fuzz but still they bodied and entailed his small bristles wool-jaw and patches and wire scrubbing razors. His fears, even by the tide refused tugging where compromising and a few millimetres imposed on his face like the victorious stamp of adulthood.


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