Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

Posts Tagged ‘writing

once upon a time…

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It was cold and dark in the catacombs, quiet except for my own footsteps and the skittering of small creatures across the rough stone below. The walls were slightly damp, the smell of must strong. As I walked further into the shadows, cobwebs snagged at my face and I pulled them off. I looked down and saw the remains of what might have been an ancient mosaic floor. Black, red, and white tiles made up a design, but it was hard to tell what the picture might have been.

I did not like it here and wondered what Enchanteur expected me to find. What is this place? I whispered.

“It is the Slush Pile, where rejected stories go to die,” said a small voice.

“Who – who are you?”

“I am a were-pen. See the shining point of light on that wall? That’s me.”

“You can speak?”

“I am a voice in your head, but you are not mad. It’s a Lemurian magic. Call it your inner voice, the writer within, seeking expression.”

“I knew writers were crazy; this confirms it,” I admitted. “But we’re mostly harmless. So if I have a talking were-pen as my guide, I guess that’s OK.”

The were pen bobbed in agreement. “It is a deep, dark magic, like bibbety-bobbity-boo. Toss some basil in the air, and presto-chango, we can advance the plot!”

It made a funny, clicky noise. I didn’t know were-pens could snicker. “You’re kind of sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“I am *your* inner voice, afterall.” The pen top clicked mischievously and I swear the were-pen was winking at me. “Call me 86.”

“Let’s recap, 86. I am talking to a were-pen in the dead stories file. So the contents of these catacombs are what, unpublished stories?”

“Not even that. They are half-finished stories. Plots that twisted and turned up their toes too early. Characters only half fleshed out. Mummified mixed metaphors. Paragraphs piled up like bodies for the charnel house. Adjectives tossed overboard. Ransacked rhymes. Transitions that never made it from one paragraph to the next. Half-done hooks. Wasted words. These are the stories of the damned, that have no voices, until a writer tells them.”

“I thought this was a ladies’ literary walking tour. Where’s Enchanteur? What does this creepy place have to do with me?

The were pen swung above my head like an inky sword of Damocles. “Once upon a time…”

By Kerry Vincent © 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

June 17, 2008 at 8:33 pm