Hey. Syawn here.
- I’ve started a weekly challenge for my author. It’s a good way to keep her on track. This challenge will be to write exactly 100 words on whatever subject I’m wondering about at the time, every Tuesday.
Why Tuesday? she asks. Because today is Tuesday, and I’ll not let her put it off for one more day.
Why whatever subject you’re wondering about? What about subjects I’m wondering about? the author asks, affronted. Because if I let her pick, she would be all day dithering between one musing and another.
Why 100 words precisely? she asks. Because I said so.
Why “clamor”? Because the word has a nice sound about it, don’t you think?
First a glimpse of my wonderings on the chaos of clamor and the sometimes frightful meanings that lie beneath, then Tirzah turns poetic with her wonderings, then we kind of ditch the wonderings and get snippy with one another… nevertheless, no section wavers from its 100-word precision.
Sy closed the door on his new-won domain, wanting just to lean against it, but habit insisted he search the room before dropping onto his bed with a sigh. The tavern’s cacophony filtered up from below, but he had escaped its mass.
He saw what every man, woman, and child represented, he would see the shifting web in the roiling tavern, the strands of rapport and resistance between every figure in his empire. And sometimes, rarely but sometimes, he would feel the weight of every strand tying back to him. In such moments, he only wished safety from humanity’s clamor.
I’ll butcher a poem:
Is it only me, or does
A swell of silence
Blossom outward through sound
A spreading bubble of quiet, sure as a cast spell.
A multitude stopping to hear
The beat before the pin drops
And listening to the life that breaths in still air?
It is only me
And I only wish
Head cocked to hear
The silence beneath the sound
The stillness behind the fluster
The crowd roils
Hearing only the sound waves that hit their ears,
To stand alone
And cock my head
At the ocean beneath.
“What a load of pretentious rot,” Sy hoots.
“It’s free form.” Tirzah sips serenely of her tea. “I think there’s some law where you’re not allowed to judge the pretentious rot levels of free form.”
“Isn’t there also some law that states free-form must be written, well or ill, from some depth of emotion? I’m checking your memories, and you felt none of what you said. You were bored in the middle of the mall, waiting for stores to open so you could apply, and you wrote to entertain yourself as you watched the building clamor.”
“Don’t expose trade secrets.”